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THE  GENIUS  OF  HENRY  FIELDING 


•  '   A  '*' 

.  •   ••«  •     •  •.• 


HKNUY  FIELDIXCs.ETATIvS  XLV 


DRAWING  BY   HOGARTH   FROM  MEMORY 
NO    AUTHENTIC   PORTRAIT   EXISTS 


THE 

GENIUS  OF  HENRY  FIELDING 

(  WITH    SELECTIONS    FROM    HIS    WORKS  ) 


INTRODUCTION   AND    NOTES 


BY 

HENRY  H.  HARPER 


Univ,  or  California 

SOUrHERM  Bramch 

PRINTED    EXCLUSIVELY    FOR    MEMBERS    OF 

THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 

BOSTON  —  MCMXIX 


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THE  GENIUS  OF  HENRY  FIELDING 
By  Henry  H.  Harper 


What  is  the  poor  pride  arising  from  a  magnifi-  i 
cent  house,  a  numerous  equipage,  a  splendid  table, 
and  from  all  the  other  advantages  or  appearances 
of  fortune,  compared  to  the  warm,  solid  content,  ^ 
the  swelling   satisfaction,  the   thrilling   transports,  i 
and  the  exulting  triumphs  which  a  good  mind  en- 
rj     joys  in  the  contemplation  of  a  generous,  virtuous, . 
noble,  benevolent  action?  —  henry  fielding. 


While  most  modern  readers  are  more  or 
less  acquainted  with  the  genius  of  Henry 
Fielding,  there  are  some  who  perhaps 
imagine  that  style  and  invention  in  novel- 
writing  have  so  iXW^b  improved  in  the 
pjy  Mi  V^edO^d  (sii^iac|dF^^s{]j^e 
Fieldiiig*s.-dgat|^tl^t  ,to,  read  his  works 
in  tms  acrvknfe[P^J|e  mould ;  be  equivafeiit 
^  3  to  going  back  and  reviewing  our  school 
^^  primers.  It  used  to  be  a  juvenile  maxim 
at  school,  "A  master  outgrown  is  a  master 
outshone;"   but  as  Fielding  said  of  another 

5 


equally   sound   maxim,   the   one   objection 
^   to  it  is,  that  it  is  not  true.     Fielding  has 
been  much  quoted  and  imitated,  but  for 
C   sound   philosophy,   piquancy   of  style   and 
accuracy  in  portraying  human  nature  in  all 
its  phases  he  has  never  been  outshone  by 
aC  any  of  his  pupils  or  successors.     As  one  of 

the  first  exponents  of  the  Enghsh  novel  he 
set  a  standard  in  prose,  like  Milton  and 
Shakespeare  in  poetry,  that  has  never  been 
excelled,  and  rarely  equalled,  by  moderns. 
Later  writers  have  no  more  improved  upon 
his  style  than  modern  poets  have  improved 
upon  Shakespeare's. 
,  /  ^  Some  of  Fielding's  book  characters  were 
1/  addicted  to  certain  moral  infirmities  pecul- 
iar to  the  human  species,  and  furthermore 
they  were  exceedingly  plain-spoken  at 
times.  These  propensities,  although  very 
natural,  have  doubtless  operated  against 
a  good  opinion  of  his  works  in  the  minds 
of  such  persons  as  have  to  contend  with 
an  unduly  fastidious  taste,  or  in  other 
words,  whose  dehcate  sensibilities  are  se- 
verely shocked  by  word-pictures  and 
expressions  which,  although  in  common 
enough  use  by  reahstic  writers  in  Fielding's 
time,   are  not  so  commonly  employed  in 

6 


the  polite  literature  of  our  day.  But 
Fielding's  works  were  not  designed  for 
those  who  would  blush  for  classic  Venus 
or  Apollo.  In  writing  of  Fielding's  im- 
mortal work,  Tom  Jones,  Coleridge  said: 
"A  young  man  whose  heart  or  feelings  can 
be  injured,  or  even  his  passions  excited  by 
this  novel,  is  already  thoroughly  corrupt.'* 

In  like  manner  as  the  styles  in  archi- 
tecture have  undergone  many  changes, 
so  has  the  literary  method  of  treating  with 
epithets  and  morals  been  greatly  modified. 
But  as  the  architectural  beauty  of  many 
of  the  old  monuments  and  cathedrals  has 
not  been  surpassed  in  modern  times,  so 
have  the  literary  edifices  built  by  Fielding 
stood  the  test  of  time,  while  other  later 
and  more  pretentious  ones  have  crumbled 
and  been  forgotten;  and  the  following 
prophecy  by  the  renowned  Gibbon  seems 
destined  to  be  fulfilled:  "The  successors 
of  Charles  V  may  disdain  their  brethren 
of  England,  but  the  romance  of  Tom 
Jones,  that  exquisite  picture  of  humor  and 
manners,  will  outlive  the  palace  of  the 
Escurial  and  the  Imperial  Eagle  of  Austria." 

Literary  style  having  largely  superseded 
Nature,  the  more  artful  writers  no  longer 

7 


/ 


permit  their  characters  of  the  lower  order 
to  speak  in  their  own  vernacular,  or  to 
conduct  themselves  as  they  customarily 
do  in  real  life;  but  instead  they  choose 
for  them  only  such  language  and  behavior 
as  will  accord  with  the  more  punctilious 
taste  of  the  reader,  oftentimes  with  a  fine 
disregard  of  its  appropriateness  to  the 
character  it  is  meant  to  typify.  However 
praiseworthy  this  modern  habit  of  restraint 
<  and    artificiality    may    be,    the    fact    still 

remains,  that  the  vital  spark  of  longevity 
in  literature  is  its  faithfulness  to  Nature, 
—  whose  countenance  has  really  under- 
gone no  very  marked  change  since  Field- 
ing*s  time.  A  book  character  with  no 
human  frailties  must  of  necessity  be  but 
a  sketchy  outline,  bearing  only  a  superficial 
likeness  to  the  original;  and  since  most 
people  convey  a  more  accurate  idea  of 
their  true  natures  by  their  unrestrained 
acts  and  conversation  than  is  to  be  gained 
by  what  others  may  say  of  them,  it-:was 
,  I  Fielding's  practice  to  permit  his  characters 
^  ithe  utmost  spontaneity  of  speech  and 
jaction.  He  says:  '*I  am  firmly  of  the 
opinion  that  there  is  neither  spirit  nor 
good  sense  in  oaths,  nor  any  wit  or  humor 

8 


t 


in  blasphemy.     But  vulgar  errors   require 
an  abler  pen  than  mine  to  correct." 

"It  is  a  trite  but  true  observation," 
says  Fielding,  ''that ^examples  work  more 
forcibly  on  the  mind  than  precepts;  and 
if  this  be  just  in  what  is  odious  and  blame- 
able,  it  is  more  strongly  so  in  what  is 
amiable  and  praiseworthy."  While  chil- 
dren are  now-a-days  taught  affirmatively 
by  good  example,  many  renowned  writers 
of  the  past  used  to  employ  the  negative 
method  of  reproving  evil  by  force  of 
bad  example  —  by  setting  forth  immoral 
acts  and  evil  situations  in  their  worst 
phases  and  illustrating  their  inevitably 
bad  consequences.  There  is  no  reason  why 
the  former  of  these  two  principles  should 
be  adopted  to  the  exclusion  of  the  latter, 
for  in  equal  measure  as  we  should  learn 
to  accomplish  what  is  noble  and  praise- 
worthy, we  should  learn  to  avoid  what  is 
ignoble  and  blamew^orthy. 

It  is  the  theory  of  some  persons  that 
certain  forms  of  vice  are  naturally  alluring 
to  a  young  and  impressionable  mind;  and 
that  the  unsophisticated  should  be  left  to 
discover  for  themselves  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  vice  in  the  world.     They  might 

9 


also  by  the  same  tenet  be  left  to  find  out 
for  themselves  that  there  is  a  retribution 
hereafter.  Mystery  invites  investigation; 
and  as  a  secret  withheld  excites  double 
the  interest  of  a  secret  disclosed,  so  does 
concealment  of  vice  arouse  a  curiosity  to 
pry  into  it.  Therefore,  as  children  —  and 
some  grown  people  as  well  —  entertain 
the  belief  that  they  are  privileged  to  appro- 
priate to  themselves  whatever  they  find, 
it  may  be  that  the  ancient  writers  were 
more  far-seeing  than  we  suspect,  in  dis- 
covering immorality  and  other  conspicuous 
faults  in  their  contemporaries  and  laying 
them  before  their  readers.  We  may,  how- 
ever, except  Rabelais,  and  Balzac  in  his 
Contes  Drolatiques;  for  the  thoughts  of 
these  two  writers  are  as  wont  to  follow 
in  the  channels  of  vulgarity  and  lascivious- 
ness  as  the  inclinations  of  a  duck  are  to 
follow  a  path  leading  to  a  pool  of  stagnant 
water. 

Doubtless  the  most  efficacious  method 
of  teaching  a  child  to  avoid  a  hot  stove  is 
to  introduce  it  to  that  object  and  demon- 
strate that  it  will  burn  if  touched;  for 
assuredly  a  child  could  not  be  more  con- 
vincingly   taught    what    a    hot    stove    is, 

10 


and  that  it  will  surely  burn,  than  by  seeing 
it  tested.  As  a  knowledge  of  the  law  is 
one's  surest  safeguard  against  plunging 
headlong  into  litigation,  so  also  a  familiarity 
with  the  moral  pitfalls  in  life  is  the  most 
helpful  means  of  preventing  people  from^ 
stumbling  into  them. 

It  is  a  debatable  question  whether  the 
promise  of  reward  for  good  deeds,  or 
the  fear-  of  punishment  for  bad  ones,  is 
the  strongest  deterrent  to  wrong-doing, 
though  it  may  be  contended  that  even 
the  most  alluring  promises  of  health,  hap- 
piness and  prosperity  will  not  assist  one 
in  combating  a  bad  distemper,  either  of 
body  or  mind. 

Although  Fielding  makes  no  pretention  1 

of  being  an  ethical  instructor,  yet  in  his 
works    improper    conduct    and    mean    dis- 
positions in  men  and  women  are  frequently 
employed,  rather  as  a  means  of  conspicu- 
ously  proving  their  own   unhappy   results 
than  to  gratify  the  morbid  sensibilities  of   i 
readers.  /  His  characters  are  veritable  word- "y.    ^ 
pictures  taKenfrom  living  models,  and  his  '^ 
situations'are  portrayed.mainly  from  scenes 
enacteElrTTeal  life.  "^  Notwithstanding  the- 5 
pferrrtaKguage  and  unchaste  actions  attrib- 

II 


uted  to  some  of  them,  literature  contains 
no  record  of  a  mind  more  instinctively 
antagonistic  to  meanness,  hypocrisy  and  - 
knavery,  or  more  persistent  in  its  advocacy 
of  kindness,  charity  and  upright  dealings, 
than  we  find  in  the  author  of  Tom  Jones. 
Furthermore,  he  has  set  forth  his  own 
varied  experiences  and  his  outlook  upon 
life  in  such  an  absorbing  narrative  form 
that  the  reader  is  highly  entertained  by 
a  good  story,  filled  with  thrilling  incident, 
romance  and  adventure,  and  pointed  with 

;        an  abundance  of  forceful  maxims,  and  is^ 

'  made  to  feel  the  elevating  force  of  the 
moral  without  being  made  conscious  of 
any  moral  preaching. 

Fielding  was  pretty  much  in  accord  with 
Swift  in  believing  that  the  majority  of 
mankind  derive  greater  pleasure  from  be- 
ing diverted  than  instructed,  but  he  says 
in  a  short  essay,  which  is  printed  herein, 
that  "Letters  were  surely  intended  for  a 
much  more  noble  and  profitable  purpose 
than    this."     He   was    aware    of   his    own 

/  literary  talents,  and  like  Horace,  Vergil 
and  others  long  before  him,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  predict  a  place  for  his  works 

V       in  the  estimation  of  posterity;    in  which 

12 


prognostication,  as  he  was  no  inferior 
writer,  he  proved  to  be  no  inferior  prophet^ 
/At  the  very  outset  Fielding  sets  a  lively 
pace  for  his  characters,  and  he  seldom 
permits  them  to  waste  their  time  or  that 
of  the  reader  in  viewing  the  scenery,  or 
to  rest  from  their  duties  of  edifying  the 
audience,  except  for  occasional  digressions, 
or  when  he  himself  intervenes  with  a 
clinching  argumentative  apothegm  to  lend 
emphasis  to  some  point  or  incident.  As 
all  brooks  and  rivers  flow  on  toward  an 
objective,  so  do  the  actions  and  conver- 
sations of  Fielding's  characters  lead  to 
some  purpose,  I — such  as  -amusement,  in- 
struction or  character-study;  and  his  writ- 
ings are  happily  free  from  a  wearisome 
redundance  of  inane  chitchat  and  empty 
tittle-tattle.  If  the  action  threatens  to 
drag  he  is  ever  ready  to  quicken  the  move- 
ment by  engaging  some  of  his  militant 
actors  in  a  hvely  altercation  or  a  highly 
amusing  brawl,  usually  at  some  country 
inn,  whereat  the  combatants  always  engage 
with  Spartan  courage,  generally  at  the 
expense  of  hair,  wearing  apparel,  and  per- 
sonal dignity.  His  combats,  which  are 
usually   impromptu,   are  always   irregular, 

13 


/ 
/• 


/ 


/ 


1  ungloved  affairs,  and  the  participants  has- 
I  tily  arm  themselves  with  whatever  im- 
\  plement  of  warfare  is  most  conveniently 
I  at  hand,  whether  it  be  a  cane,  sword, 
:  broom,  frying-pan,  a  piece  of  bed-room 
'■  china,  or  only  their  tongues  and  bare 
fists.  ,''  Even  old  parson  Adams  (in  Joseph 
7in3rews)  is  made  sufficiently  human  to 
forget  his  cloth  occasionally  and  lend  a 
free  hand  on  the  side  of  justice,  if  not  of 
discretion,  in  these  desultory  encounters, 
—  as  for  example,  on  one  occasion  when 
he  and  his  travehng  companion,  Joseph 
Andrews,  arrived  at  a  country  inn  kept 
by  an  ill-mated  pair.  Joseph,  who  was 
suffering  from  a  bruised  knee  occasioned 
by  a  bad  fall,  repaired  to  the  kitchen, 
where  he  was  being  attended  by  parson 
Adams  and  the  good  landlady,  when  the 
bellicose  spouse  entered.  "This  surly  fel- 
low," says  Fielding,  "who  always  propor- 
tioned his  respect  to  the  appearance  of  a 
traveller,  from  *God  bless  your  honour,* 
down  to  plain  'Coming  presently,'  observ- 
ing his  wife  on  her  knees  to  a  footman, 
cried  out,  without  considering  his  circum- 
stances, 'What  a  pox  is  the  woman  about? 
Why  don't  you  mind  the  company  in  the 

14 


coach?     Go  and  ask  them  what  they  will 
have  for  dinner.' 

***My  dear,'  says  she,  'you  know  they 
can  have  nothing  but  what  is  at  the  fire, 
which  will  be  ready  presently;  and  really 
the  poor  young  man's  leg  is  very  much 
bruised.'  At  w^hich  w^ords  she  fell  to  chafing 
more  violently  than  before:  the  bell  then 
happening  to  ring,  he  damn'd  his  wife,  and 
bid  her  go  in  to  the  company,  and  not 
stand  rubbing  there  all  day,  for  he  did  not 
believe  the  young  fellow's  leg  was  so  bad 
as  he  pretended;  and  if  it  was,  within 
twenty  miles  he  would  find  a  surgeon  to 
cut  it  off.  Upon  these  words,  Adams 
fetched  two  strides  across  the  room;  and 
snapping  his  fingers  over  his  head,  mut- 
tered aloud.  He  would  excommunicate  such 
a  wretch  for  a  farthing,  for  he  believed  the 
devil  had  more  humanity.  These  words 
occasioned  a  dialogue  between  Adams  and 
the  host,  in  which  there  were  two  or  three 
sharp  replies,  till  Joseph  bade  the  latter 
know  how  to  behave  himself  to  his  betters. 
At  which  the  host  (having  first  strictly 
surveyed  Adams)  scornfully  repeating  the 
word  'betters,*  flew  into  a  rage,  and,  telling 
Joseph  he  was  as  able  to  walk  out  of  his 

15 


house  as  he  had  been  to  walk  into  it, 
offered  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him;  which 
perceiving,  Adams  dealt  him  so  sound  a 
compliment  over  his  face  with  his  fist,  that 
the  blood  immediately  gushed  out  of  his 
nose  in  a  stream.  The  host,  being  unwill- 
ing to  be  outdone  in  courtesy,  especially 
by  a  person  of  Adams's  figure,  returned 
the  favour  with  so  much  gratitude,  that  the 
parson's  nostrils  began  to  look  a  little  red- 
der than  usual.  Upon  which  Adams  again 
assailed  his  antagonist,  and  with  another 
stroke  laid  him  sprawling  on  the  floor. 

"The  hostess,  who  was  a  better  wife 
than  so  surly  a  husband  deserved,  seeing 
her  husband  all  bloody  and  stretched  along, 
hastened  presently  to  his  assistance,  or 
rather  to  revenge  the  blow,  which,  to  all 
appearance,  was  the  last  he  would  ever 
receive;  when,  lo!  a  pan  full  of  hog's  blood, 
which  unluckily  stood  on  the  dresser,  pre- 
sented itself  first  to  her  hands.  She  seized 
it  in  her  fury,  and  without  any  reflection, 
discharged  it  into  the  parson's  face;  and 
with  so  good  an  aim,  that  much  the  greater 
part  first  saluted  his  countenance,  and 
trickled  thence  in  so  large  a  current  down 
to  his  beard,  and  over  his  garments,  that 

i6 


a  more  horrible  spectacle  was  hardly  to  be 
seen,  or  even  imagined.  All  which  was 
perceived  by  Mrs.  Slipslop,  who  entered 
the  kitchen  at  that  instant.  This  good 
gentlewoman,  not  being  of  a  temper  so 
extremely  cool  and  patient  as  perhaps  was 
required  to  ask  many  questions  on  this 
occasion,  flew  with  great  impetuosity  at 
the  hostess's  cap,  which,  together  with  some 
of  her  hair,  she  plucked  from  her  head  in 
a  moment,  giving  her,  at  the  same  time, 
several  hearty  cuffs  in  the  face;  which  by 
frequent  practice  on  the  inferior  servants, 
she  had  learned  an  excellent  knack  of  de- 
livering with  a  good  grace.  Poor  Joseph 
could  hardly  rise  from  his  chair;  the  parson 
was  employed  in  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
eyes,  which  had  entirely  blinded  him;  and 
the  landlord  was  but  just  beginning  to  stir; 
whilst  Mrs.  Slipslop,  holding  down  the  land- 
lady's face  with  her  left  hand,  made  so 
dexterous  an  use  of  her  right,  that  the  poor 
woman  began  to  roar,  in  a  key  which 
alarmed  all  the  company  in  the  inn.  .  .  . 
"The  principal  figure,  and  which  en- 
gaged the  eyes  of  all,  was  Adams,  who  was 
all  over  covered  with  blood,  which  the 
whole  company  concluded  to  be  his  own, 

17 


and  consequently  imagined  him  no  longer 
for  this  world.  But  the  host,  who  had  now 
recovered  from  his  blow,  and  was  risen 
from  the  ground,  soon  delivered  them  from 
this  apprehension,  by  damning  his  wife  for 
wasting  the  hog's  puddings,  and  telling  her 
all  would  have  been  very  well  if  she  had 
not  intermeddled,  like  a  b —  as  she  was; 
adding,  he  was  very  glad  the  gentlewoman 
had  paid  her,  though  not  half  what  she 
deserved.  The  poor  woman  had  indeed 
fared  much  the  worst;  having,  besides  the 
unmerciful  cuffs  received,  lost  a  quantity 
of  hair,  which  Mrs.  Slipslop  in  triumph 
held  in  her  left  hand." 

It  is  doubtful  if  Fielding,  any  more  than 
parson  Adams,  could  have  quite  recon- 
ciled himself  to  a  free  practice  of  that 
laudable  virtue  of  "turning  the  other  cheek" 
to  an  adversary  who  had  smote  him  on  one 
side;  although  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
in  most  of  the  battles  where  his  heroes 
are  involved  they  are  found  to  be  avenging 
injuries  or  affronts  to  others,  rather  than 
to  themselves.  Possibly  Fielding  may  have 
construed  the  Biblical  injunction  as  apply- 
ing only  to  the  injured  one,  and  not  to  any 
third  party  who  might  be  inclined  to  insist 

i8 


upon  fair  play,  or  to  administer  a  well- 
deserved  rebuke.  At  any  rate,  if  our  \ 
author  indulges  his  pen  rather  freely  in 
disputes  and  combats  they  seem  for  the 
most  part  to  arise  from  justifiable  prov- 
ocations; furthermore,  they  serve  a  pur- 
pose in  showing  the  pugnacity  of  human 
nature  —  a  quality  by  no  means  extinct 
in  the  present  age.  Indeed  a  surprisingly 
large  percentage  of  the  famous  characters 
in  history  have  distinguished  themselves 
as  fighters  or  writers;  and  there  have 
been  others,  perhaps  less  distinguished, 
who  have  doubted  which  of  these  two 
classes  of  celebrities  is  the  more  useful 
to  the  human  race.  It  might  be  argued 
negatively  in  behalf  of  the  latter  class, 
that  if  there  were  fewer  fighters,  more 
happiness  would  be  found  in  a  correspond- 
ingly reduced  demand  for  their  talents. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  would  be  a  les- 
sened need  of  writing  tq  celebrate  their 
prowess.  Therefore  these  two  classes  seem 
not  only  to  vie  with  each  other  for  suprem- 
acy in  numbers,  but  they  lean  heavily 
upon  each  other  to  support  the  lustre  of 
their  fame.  That  they  are  regarded  by 
some  as  representing  two  distinctly  separate 

19 


vocations  is  proved  by  Fielding,  who  re- 
cords an  instance  where  a  poet  having 
obtruded  himself  into  a  fight  and  finding 
that  he  was  likely  to  become  bested  in 
the  fray,  he  withdrew  upon  having  sud- 
denly bethought  himself  that  it  was  his 
business  to  record  heroic  actions,  rather 
than  to  take  part  in  them. 

It  happens  that  grown-ups,  no  less  than 
boys,    occasionally    relish    a    fight  —  pro- 
/  vided  they  are  not  directly  involved  therein 
I   —  and    Fielding   therefore   made    frequent 
I    use   of  this   diversion   in   his   novels   as   a 
method  of  amusing  his  readers.     He  also 
had  a  happy  way  of  assigning  this  feature 
of  his  entertainment  to  such  artists  as  are 
most  likely  to  please  his  audience,  not  so 
much  with  their  fistic  cleverness  as  with 
the    variety    and    grotesqueness    of    their 
1/ performance;    nor  did  he  scruple  to  enlist 
the  feminine  as  well  as  the  masculine  sex 
in  the  midst  of  the  action,  thus  producing 
what    might   properly   be   termed   "mixed 
bouts.'*     Fielding   was   apparently   no   ad- 
vocate of  the  theory  that  quarrelling  and 
fighting  are  heroic  attributes  in  which  the 
gentler  sex  are  denied  the  right  of  partici- 
pation, and  to  prove  the  contrary  he  usually 

20 


kept    in    his    troupe    one   or    more    hardy 
Amazonians  who  could  be  relied  upon  to 
give  a  fairly  good  account  of  themselves, 
when    occasion    required.     He    has,    more- 
}   over,    dealt   with    almost   every    phase   of 
\  human  life,  from  the  highest  nobleman  — 
I  with   all  that  that   name   implies  —  down 
Ito  the   meanest  rogue,   and   in  a   manner 
jso  reaHstic   as   to   leave   no   doubt   in   the 
/   mind  of  the  reader  that  he  not  only  knew 
'  their  characteristics,  but  he  knew  precisely 
the  language  and  deportment  with  which  to 
:   characterize  them.     Upon  this  point  Field- 
ing observes  that  the  knowledge  of  an  au- 
thor "must  be  universal;  that  is,  with  all 
ranks  and  degrees  of  men;  for  the  knowl- 
edge of  what  is  called  high  life  will  not 
instruct  him  in  low;    nor,  e  converso,  will 
his  being  acquainted  with  the  inferior  part 
of  mankind  teach  him  the  manners  of  the 
superior.'* 

In  Fielding's  works  the  relationship  of 
debtor  and  creditor,  of  judge  and  criminal, 
of  gaol-keeper  and  prisoner,  of  master  and 
servant,  of  lover  and  loved  one,  of  husband 
and  wife,  of  parent  and  child,  of  guard- 
ian and  ward,  of  friend  and  enemy,  of  host 
and  guest,  of  teacher  and  pupil,  of  physi- 

21 


•     *     ^f  lawver   and   client, 
cian   and   patient,   of   '^^^^^  u   i^ter- 

of  pastor   -d  P'^"? 'rstorks  and  all  are 
,,oven  in  the  plots  of  >"=  ^^oms       ^^^  ^^^ 

treated  respecwely   m  the,  ^    ^^^^  ^^^,,. 

T"tnriearning  derived  wholly  from 
tility  and  'earning  observation;  he  is 
reading    and    d.stant jb^er  ^^^ 

said  to  have  spent  niuch  o  ^^^ 

i„  the  midst  of  a  J^^  '^^'J.he  gaols  in 
a  stranger  to  the  squaK-  ^^^^^^  i^„. 

life  his  ottice  oi  ^  rriminals    and 

London,   his   -n^-^  ^J,  ,^  rkeen  facul- 
with  persons  of  d'Stmct  on  ^^ 

ties  of  observation  h.akrt  sense  ^^  ^^^^^^^ 

^'^  ~;  £ra    er"  aln    all   combined 
powers    ot    characLc  "sanest 

He  was  a  kind,  attect'ona  ^^^^ 

devoted,  indulgent  parent     and  a 
'     •«!   fr^pnd  -  His  works   are  ct    v 

s^'s;  *"*«  »>■"- »"  '""'"• 


of  numberless   imitators   for  upwards  of  a 
hundred  years.     His  writings,  like  the  his-     v  \    ^■- >^ 
trionic  talents   of  a   great  actor,  although     (  \  -^ 
having  the  appearance  of  ease  in  execution,    j 
are    nevertheless    difficult   to    imitate.     As 
a  bee,   with  its   marvelous  and   incompre- 
hensible faculties,  converts  the  essence  from 
a  great  variety  of  flowers  into  honey  which 
it  stores  in  its  hive,  so  Fielding  gathered     J 
his  experiences  and  observations  from  all 
walks  in  life,   as  well  as  from  the  works 
of  learned   writers,  and  coordinated  them 
into   useful   knowledge   and   entertainment 
which    he   stored    up    in   volumes    for   the 
edification    of    future    generations.     While 
poets    have    perpetuated    their    fame    by 
singing   the   praises   of   great    heroes    and  / 

chronicling  momentous  jcvents  in  the  world's^        / 
history,   the    novelist  |FieIding   gained   re-    j 
nown  by  his  accuratJ  and  humorous  de-   ' 
piction   of  human   nature   as   he   found   it    i 
existent  in  his  own  day, /-and  just  about-.4 
as  we  now  fmd  it  existent  among  ourselves 
—  indeed,  to  such  an  extent  that  it  appears 
at  times  as  if  Fielding  had  projected  himself 
into    futurity    and    settled    in    our    midst. 
And  speaking  of  poets,  it  may  be  remarked 
that  although  we  are  a  great  and  indus- 

23 


trious  race,  our  achievements,  if  not  our 
morals  —  like  the  heroic  qualities  of  many 
great  men  who  preceded  Agamemnon  — 
are  in  some  danger  of  being  forgotten.  — 

Ere  Agamemnon  many  a  hero  lived. 
But  all  in  darkness  bide  while  ages  pass, 
Unknown,  unwept,  and  lost  to  story, 
Lacking  the  aid  of  a  sacred  bard. 

And  yet,  while  Fielding's  epigrammatic 
style  is  comparatively  easy  of  comprehen- 
sion, his  art,  like  that  of  a  great  painter, 
requires  some  understanding  in  order  fully 
to  appreciate  it.  He  is  preeminently  a 
writer  for  thinking  people.  His  keen  wit 
and  caustic  satire  are  oftentimes  so  closely 
veiled  as  to  escape  the  observation  of  the 
hasty  or  unthinking  reader.  As  a  mir- 
rored reflection  of  the  customs,  vices  and 
.virtues  of  his  own  time  the  works  of  Field- 
ing are  unrivalled;  as  a  virile  story-teller 
^e  is  scarcely  to  be  excelled;  as  a  philos- 
opher he  is  deep,  resourceful  and  con- 
vincing; and  the  doctrine  of  charity,  the 
/brotherhood  of  man  and  the  uplifting  of 
the  human  race  are  major  chords  that 
i_  vibrate  throug^hout  all  his  works,  —  as, 
for  example,  the  following  speech  made  by 
the  young  hero  in  Joseph  Andrews.     Per- 

24 


haps  Fielding  himself  would  have  willingly 
admitted  that  "men  build  fine  houses, 
purchase  fine  furniture,  pictures,  clothes 
and  other  things,"  from  other  motives 
than  that  of  *'an  ambition  to  be  respected 
more  than  other  people,"  but  Joseph  was 
an  unlettered  boy,  and  if  the  first  few 
lines  of  his  argument  are  not  convincing, 
the  latter  part  certainly  expresses  the  au- 
thor's own  views.    He  argues  thus:  — 

**What  inspires  a  man  to  build  fine 
houses,  to  purchase  fine  furniture,  pictures, 
clothes,  and  other  things,  at  a  great  ex- 
pense, but  an  ambition  to  ^^  respected 
more  than  other  people?  ^{Now,  would 
not  one  great  act  of  charity,  one  instance 
of  redeeming  a  poor  family  from  all  the 
miseries  of  poverty,  restoring  an  unfor- 
tunate tradesman  by  a  sum  of  money 
to  the  means  of  procuring  a  livelihood  by 
his  industry,  discharging  an  undone  debtor  ^^^ 
from  his  debts  or  a  gaol,  or  any  such- 
like examples  of  goodness,  create  a  man 
more  honour  and  respect  than  he  could 
acquire  by  the  finest  house,  furniture, 
pictures,  or  clothes,  that  were  ever  beheld? 
For  not  only  the  object  himself  who  was 
thus  relieved,  but  all  who  heard  the  name 

25 


of  such  a  person,  must,  I  imagine,  rever- 
ence him  infinitely  more  than  the  possessor 
i of  all  those  other  things." 

On  this  head,  Fielding  himself  remarks, 
—  "I  have,  in  truth,  observed,  and  shall 
never  have  a  better  opportunity  than  at 
present  to  communicate  my  observation, 
that  the  world  are  in  general  divided  into 
two  opinions  concerning  charity,  which  are 
the  very  reverse  of  each  other.  One  party 
seems  to  hold,  that  all  acts  of  this  kind  are 
to  be  esteemed  as  voluntary  gifts,  and 
however  little  you  give  (if  indeed  no  more 
than  your  good  wishes),  you  acquire  a 
great  degree  of  merit  in  so  doing.  Others, 
on  the  contrary,  appear  to  be  as  firmly 
persuaded  that  beneficence  is  a  positive 
duty,  and  that  whenever  the  rich  fall 
greatly  short  of  their  ability  in  relieving 
the  distress  of  the  poor,  their  pitiful  lar- 
gesses are  so  far  from  being  meritorious, 
that  they  have  only  performed  their  duty 
by  halves,  and  are  in  some  sense  more 
contemptible  than  those  who  have  entirely 
neglected  it. 

"To  reconcile  these  different  opinions  is 
not  in  my  power.  I  shall  only  add,  that 
the    givers    are    generally    of   the    former 

26 


sentiment,    and    the    receivers    are    almost 
universally  inclined  to  the  latter." 

Consummate  perfection  in  authorship 
is  a  quality  never  yet  discovered;  not  only 
because  there  is  no  such  thing,  but  if 
there  were,  the  diversity  of  taste  is  such 
that  a  unanimous  opinion  could  never  be 
reached.  As  to  Fielding,  the  one  outstand-l 
ing  blemish  on  his  works  is  his  propensity 
for  indulging  his  characters  now  and  then 
in  long  extraneous  narratives,  and  —  espe- 
cially the  more  learned  figures  —  in  elabo- 
rate argumentative  discourses  on  abstruse 
or  doctrinal  observations.  However  much 
these  lengthy  recitals  and  scholarly  dis- 
cussions may  typify  or  elucidate  the 
characters  from  whose  mouths  they  issue, , 
they  often  weary  the  reader,  in  the  first 
instance  with  their  irrelevancy,  and  in  the 
second  instance  with  over-much  erudition; 
and  they  serve  as  stumbling-blocks  that 
halt  the  others\^ise  rapid  and  cohesive 
movement  of  his  stories.  In  those  days 
the  art  of  "filling"  (in  which  more  recent 
writers  have  attained  so  high  a  degree 
of  excellence)  was  not  uncommon,  and 
even  Jonathan  Swift  caustically  refers  to 
it  as  an  accomplishment  not  to  be  despised, 

27 


since  it  "makes  a  very  considerable  ad- 
dition to  the  bulk  of  the  volume;  a  cir- 
cumstance by  no  means  to  be  neglected 
by  a  skillful  writer." 

Fortunately,  however,  Fielding*s  wordy 
digressions  are  not  only  infrequent,  but 
they  are  mostly  set  apart  in  chapters  by 
themselves  and  are  so  marked  by  captions 
that  they  may  be  passed  over  without 
losing  any  thread  of  the  main  story  or 
lessening  one's  comprehension  of  his  plots, 
which  are  otherwise  comparatively  free 
from  incumbrance.  His  stories  are  filled 
with  lively  episodes,  absorbing  mysteries 
and  agreeable  surprises  which  are  unfolded 
to  the  reader  at  frequent  intervals,  and 
only  the  main  secret  is  withheld  to  be 
revealed  at  the  end.  But  above  all  else, 
it  is  the  inimitable  style  and  good-humor 
of  Fielding  that  delights  the  reader  — 
with  an  abundance  of  wholesome  laughter 
and  an  occasional  tear.  Sometimes  when 
you  are  confronted  with  some  scene  or 
conversation  which  threatens  to  become 
tiresome  the  author  has  a  felicitous  way 
of  drawing  the  curtain,  with  the  remark 
that  he  has  no  idea  what  the  actors  did  or 
said,  and  as  it  could  be  of  no  interest  to 

28 


the  reader  he  did  not  take  the  pains  to 
inquire^  Or,  occasionally  after  a  short 
curtain  speech,  he  apologizes  for  the  ob- 
trusion by  some  explanation,  such,  for 
instance,  as  remarking,  that  as  he  could 
not  prevail  upon  any  of  his  characters  to 
make  the  speech,  he  was  obliged  to  make 
it  himself. 

There  is  perhaps  nothing  which  brings 
an  author  more  closely  in  touch  with  our 
personal  sympathies  than  the  delineation 
of  thoughts,  sensations  and  actions  the 
like  of  which  we  ourselves  have  entertained, 
or  commonly  observed  in  others.  It  es- 
tablishes a  sort  of  kindred  feeling  between 
the  author  and  the  reader,  who  is  wont  to 
halt  and  consider,  "Now,  isn't  that  true 
to  human  nature!"  or,  "How  often  have 
I  observed  that  myself!"  In  short,  we  are 
prone  to  admire  the  sayings  of  others  —  es- 
pecially those  whom  we  consider  greater 
than  ourselves  —  when  their  expressed 
views  accord  perfectly  with  our  own,  for 
we  are  thereby  doubly  assured  of  the 
soundness  of  their  wisdom.  Or,  in  other 
words,  a  wise  thought  which  we  have 
nurtured  in  our  own  bosom  (or  brain), 
and  to  which  we  claim  a  sort  of  proprietor- 

29 


ship,  if  expressed  by  an  exalted  personage 
is  apt  to  be  more  relished  than  if  we  hear 
it  repeated  by  a  dunce.  Fielding's  writings  I 
are  so  true  to  human  nature  that  the 
reader  of  his  stories  finds  himself  con- 
stantly laying  claim  to  the  author's  philos-  i 
ophies,  and  fehcitating  himself  that  he 
and  Fielding  are  so  much  ahke  in  thought.^  ! 

The  ancient  writers  had  a  knack  of 
addressing  remarks  "to  the  reader"  with 
a  famiharity  which  seems  not  to  beget  that 
individual's  contempt  —  an  ingredient  that 
he  seldom  fails  to  bestow  upon  a  modern 
author  who  takes  any  such  Hberties.  This 
tolerant  attitude  and  the  reverence  for 
the  sayings  of  apotheosized  poets  and 
philosophers  may  be  attributed  to  a  very 
common  trait  of  human  nature,  viz.,  as 
the  greater  part  of  the  human  race  would 
scorn  to  imitate,  or  be  imitated  by,  those 
whom  they  consider  beneath  them  in  in- 
tellect and  worldly  station,  so  on  the 
other  hand  would  they  swell  with  pride 
on  discovering  that  their  thoughts  follow 
in  the  same  channels  with  those  of  great 

'  Queen  Elisabeth  (Carmen  Sylva),  of  Roumania,  said 
that  her  greatest  ambition  was  to  write  in  such  a  way  that 
all  who  read  might  think  they  wrote  it  themselves. 

30 


historical  personages.  Or,  to  paraphrase 
one  of  Fielding's  remarks,  a  man  would 
disdain  to  be  the  companion  of  a  beggar, 
though  he  would  be  proud  to  be  likened 
unto  a  great  man.  Not  that  modern  writ- 
ers are  to  be  classed  with  beggars,  but 
their  works  are  unseasoned  by  time,  their 
fame  is  unripened,  and  alas,  like  blighted 
fruit,  in  many  cases  it  falls  before  reaching 
maturity. 

Like  many  another  writer  whose  pen 
has  won  him  renown,  Fielding  had  his 
contemporary  critics  and  jealous  rivals; 
and  to  those  he  occasionally  paid  his 
respects,  particularly  in  his  Tom  Jones 
and  Amelia;  but  most  of  those  who  pre- 
sumed to  criticise  his  work  have  for  many 
generations  enjoyed  an  unchallenged  sleep 
in  oblivion,  and  as  the  sturdy  oak  towers 
above  the  underbrush,  so  his  fame  rises  far 
above  all  those  who  sought  to  make  him 
the  target  of  their  ridicule.  Swift,  who 
enjoyed  no  immunity  from  these  tantalizing 
literary  appendages,  said  of  them:  "A 
true  critic,  in  the  perusal  of  a  book,  is 
like  a  dog  at  a  feast,  whose  thoughts  and 
stomach  are  wholly  set  upon  what  the 
guests  fling  away,  and  consequently  is  apt 

31 


to  snarl  most  when  there  are  the  fewest 
bones." 

It  has  also  been  the  unhappy  fate  of 
most  geniuses  to  wrestle  with  poverty  and 
die  poor;  and  Fielding  was  no  exception 
to  this  rule.  Indeed  the  last  chapter  of 
his  life  is  exceedingly  pathetic.  Upon  the 
appearance  of  Joseph  Andrews  his  literary 
genius  became  at  once  apparent,  and  for 
a  considerable  time  thereafter  he  is  said 
to  have  lived  upon  the  bounty  of  one  or 
more  great  and  noble  men  who  supported 
him  in  the  interest  of  Letters;  but  after 
his  appointment  as  Justice  of  the  Peace 
in  London,  it  being  generally  supposed 
that  the  emoluments  of  that  office  were 
very  large,  the  sustaining  hand  was  with- 
drawn and  he  was  left  to  shift  for  himself. 
His  innate  sympathies  for  the  poor  wTetches 
with  whom  his  office  brought  him  in  con- 
tact were  such  that  he  declined  to  take 
fees  from  those  who  could  ill  afford  to 
pay  them,  and  his  income  from  this  source 
amounted  to  a  beggarly  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year  with  which  to  pay  his  faith- 
ful clerk  and  sustain  himself  and  a  numer- 
ous family.  Then,  in  the  prime  of  life,  he 
was  seized  with  a  compfication  of  diseases, 

32 


including  dropsy,  gout,  jaundice  and 
asthma,  so  that  he  could  neither  stand  nor 
sit  nor  lie  down  in  comfort.  "These  ail- 
ments,** says  Fielding,  "united  their  forces 
in  the  destruction  of  a  body  so  entirely 
emaciated  that  it  had  lost  all  its  muscular 
flesh."  Receiving  no  encouragement  from 
his  physician,  he  resigned  himself  to  the 
inevitable,  but  not  without  the  most  har- 
rowing mental  tortures  (which  he  says  far 
exceeded  his  bodily  pain),  in  being  doomed 
to  die  and  leave  his  wife  and  little  children 
utterly  without  any  means  of  support. 
Having  been  informed  by  his  physician 
that  he  could  not  possibly  survive  the 
rigors  of  another  English  winter  he  took  a 
sad  leave  of  his  little  ones,  well  knowing 
that  he  should  never  see  them  again, 
and  accompanied  by  his  devoted  wife  and 
eldest  daughter  he  boarded  a  sailing  vessel 
for  Lisbon,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  sus- 
tain life  long  enough  to  write  some 
additional  piece  to  leave  as  a  legacy  to 
his  loved  ones.  By  this  time  he  had  lost 
the  use  of  his  limbs,  and  could  scarce  hold 
a  pen  to  write.  *'Upon  my  entrance  into 
the  boat,'*  he  says,  "  I  presented  a  spectacle 
of  the   highest  horror.     The  total   loss   of 

33 


limbs  was  apparent  to  all  who  saw  me." 
His  face  was  so  attenuated  and  colorless 
that  it  presented  a  "picture  of  death  itself. 
Indeed,  so  ghastly  was  my  countenance 
that  timorous  women  with  child  had  ab- 
stained from  my  house,  for  fear  of  the  ill 
consequences  of  looking  at  me."  During 
the  short  space  of  time  left  to  him  he 
strove  valiantly  to  ward  off  death  until 
he  could  complete  his  last  work,  which 
he  entitled  *'A  Voyage  to  Lisbon."  The 
picture  of  this  poor  hopeless,  pain-ridden 
mortal,  bravely  struggling  to  rally  the 
last  fragments  of  an  erstwhile  brilliant 
genius  and  robust  physique,  and  laboring 
with  all  his  feeble  might  to  provide  some 
little  sustenance  for  his  family,  while  the 
impatient  Grim  Reaper  waited  upon  him, 
almost  at  his  very  door,  presents  a  truly 
affecting  scene.  After  all  his  persistent 
advocacy  of  charity  and  human  kindness, 
followed  by  his  unremitting  labors  in  the 
interest  of  public  welfare,  he  was  stricken 
down  in  the  prime  of  his  vigor  and  useful- 
ness w^ith  nothing  but  his  literary  fame  to 
leave  as  a  heritage  to  his  dependent  family. 
All  England  had  laughed  with  him  and  en- 
joyed his  wit  and  humor,  but  Fate  decreed 

34 


that  in  his  poverty  and  intense  anguish  he 
should  suffer  almost  alone/  He  died  soon 
after  arriving  at  Lisbon. 

The  following  lines  appeared  in  the  pub- 
lisher's Foreword  to  Fielding's  last  work, 
which  was  "begun  in  pain,  and  finished 
almost  at  the  same  period  with  life:" 

"Your  candour  is  desired  on  the  perusal 
of  the  following  sheets,  as  they  are  the 
product  of  a  genius  that  has  long  been 
your  delight  and  entertainment.  It  must  be 
acknowledged  that  a  lamp  almost  burnt 
out  does  not  give  so  steady  and  uniform 
a  light  as  when  it  blazes  in  its  full  vigour; 
but  yet  it  is  well  known  that  by  its  waver- 
ing, as  if  struggling  against  its  own  dis- 
solution, it  sometimes  darts  a  ray  as  bright 
as  ever.  In  like  manner,  a  strong  and 
lively  genius  will,  in  its  last  struggles, 
sometimes  mount  aloft,  and  throw  forth 
the  most  striking  marks  of  its  original 
lustre." 

And  so  it  was  with  Fielding;  some  of 
the  most  brilliant  flashes  of  his  expiring 
genius  scintillate  throughout  the  pages  of 
his  final  work,  in  which  there  is  scarcely 
a  note  of  personal  complaint. 

But  since  words  are  about  as  futile  in 

35 


satisfying  the  reader  concerning  the  talents 
of  a  great  writer  as  a  dissertation  on  cookery 
would  be  in  appeasing  hunger,  or  as  our 
author's  fame  was  in  providing  bread  for 
his  family,  I  shall  here  adopt  Fielding's 
borrowed  maxim,  which  he  says  is  "trite,i 
but  true;"  that  "examples  operate  more 
forcibly  on  the  mind  than  precepts."  I 
therefore  append  hereto  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  examples  from  Fielding's  writings, 
which  will  doubtless  "operate  more  for- 
cibly" on  the  reader's  mind  than  an  over- 
dose of  panegyric.  It  may  be  explained 
that  these  selections,  although  made  at 
random  from  Fielding's  various  works,  are 
for  the  most  part  complete  in  themselves. 
Nor  are  these  passages  —  excepting  only 
the  first  few  —  given  for  the  purpose  of 
merely  acquainting  the  reader  with  Field- 
ing's style.  To  that  end  a  few  pages  would 
suffice;  but  the  object  in  printing  so  great 
a  number  is  to  furnish  an  interesting  com- 
pendium for  thoughtful  readers  who  may 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  read 
Fielding's  works  in  their  entirety. 

^  A  very  great  number  of  Fielding's  arguments  and 
illustrative  maxims  are  original  with  him,  but  no  matter 
how  commonplace  an  adage  may  be  it  seldom  appears  trite 
if  happily  applied. 

36 


The  book  is  intended  to  be  read,  not  as 
a  connected  story,  but  as  one  would  read 
a  book  of  short  poems,  or  essays,  each  em- 
bodying some  separate  thought  or  story 
worthy  of  the  reader's  interest.  The  pages 
contain  much  food  for  thought,  in  many 
cases  amply  garnished  with  genuine  amuse- 
ment; and  furthermore  they  afford  a  sin- 
gularly attractive  study  of  one  of  the  most 
virile  and  interesting  figures  in  English  lit- 
erature. His  philosophy  is  both  salutary 
and  admonitory;  it  is  easily  comprehended, 
and  it  lends  itself  readily  to  the  everyday 
needs  and  experiences  of  every  individual, 
of  whatsoever  vocation  in  life. 

For  example,   he  writes,  — 

"  Men  of  true  wisdom  and  goodness  are 
contented  to  take  persons  and  things  as 
they  are,  without  complaining  of  their 
imperfections,  or  attempting  to  amend 
them.  They  can  see  a  fault  in  a  friend, 
a  relation,  or  an  acquaintance,  without 
ever  mentioning  it  to  the  parties  them- 
selves, or  to  any  others;  and  this  often 
without  lessening  their  affection.  In- 
deed, unless  great  discernment  be  tem- 
pered with  this  overlooking  disposition,  we 
ought    never    to    contract    friendship    but 

37 


7  (\  '7  "5  S 


with  a  degree  of  folly  which  we  can  deceive; 
for  I  hope  my  friends  will  pardon  me  when 
I  declare,  I  know  none  of  them  without 
a  fault;  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  could 
imagine  I  had  any  friend  who  could  not 
see  mine.  Forgiveness  of  this  kind  we 
give  and  demand  in  turn.  It  is  an  exercise 
of  friendship,  and  perhaps  none  of  the  least 
pleasant.  And  this  forgiveness  we  must 
bestow,  without  desire  of  amendment. 
There  is,  perhaps,  no  surer  mark  of  folly, 
than  an  attempt  to  correct  the  natural 
infirmities  of  those  we  love.Ylhe  finest 
composition  of  human  nature,*"^  well  as 
the  finest  china,  may  have  a  flaw  in  it; 
and  this,  I  am  afraid,  in  either  case,  is 
equally  incurable;  though,  nevertheless,  the 
pattern  may  remain  of  the  highest  value."  7 

"  Reader,  if  thou  hast  any  good  wishes 
towards  me,  I  will  fully  repay  them  by 
wishing  thee  to  be  possessed  of  a  sanguine 
disposition  of  mind;  since,  after  having 
read  much  and  considered  long  on  that 
subject  of  happiness  which  hath  employed 
so  many  great  pens,  I  am  almost  inclined 
to  fix  it  in  the  possession  of  this  temper; 
which   puts   us,   in   a  manner,   out  of  the 

38 


reach  of  Fortune,  and  makes  us  happy 
without  her  assistance.  Indeed,  the  sen- 
sations of  pleasure  it  gives  are  much  more 
constant  as  well  as  much  keener,  than 
those  which  that  blind  lady  bestows; 
nature  having  wisely  contrived,  that  some 
satiety  and  languor  should  be  annexed 
to  all  our  real  enjoyments,  lest  we  should 
be  so  taken  up  by  them,  as  to  be  stopt 
from  further  pursuits.  I  make  no  manner 
of  doubt  but  that,  in  this  light,  we  may  see 
the  imaginary  future  chancellor  just  called 
to  the  bar,  the  archbishop  in  crape,  and 
the  prime  minister  at  the  tail  of  an  oppo- 
sition, more  truly  happy  than  those  who 
are  invested  with  all  the  power  and  profit 
of  those  respective  offices." 

Again  he  says:  ''There  are  several  cere- 
monies instituted  among  the  polished  part 
of  mankind,  which,  though  they  may  to 
coarser  judgments  appear  as  mere  matters 
of  form,  are  found  to  have  much  of  sub- 
stance in  them  by  the  more  discerning. 
...  It  hath  been  a  custom  iong  estab- 
lished in  the  polite  world,  and  that  upon 
very  solid  and  substantial  reasons,  that  a 
husband  shall  never  enter  his  wife's  apart- 
ment without  first  knocking  at  the  door. 

39 


The  many  excellent  uses  of  this  custom 
need  scarce  be  hinted  to  a  reader  who  hath 
any  knowledge  of  the  world." 

This  passage,  which  forms  a  complete 
epigram,  is  aptly  applied  to  an  episode 
where  an  irate  husband  who,  in  pursuing 
a  run-away  wife,  stopped  late  one  night  at 
a  country  inn  where  he  thought  she  had 
put  up.  He  bribed  the  chambermaid  to 
show  him  to  his  wife's  room,  but  that  wily 
functionary  —  possibly  having  received  a 
more  generous  fee  from  the  lady  herself  — 
led  the  impassioned  husband  to  the  bed- 
chamber door  of  another  couple.  Fielding 
says:  "Knock,  indeed,  he  did  at  the  door, 
but  not  one  of  those  gentle  raps  which  is 
usual  on  such  occasions.  On  the  contrary, 
when  he  found  the  door  locked  he  flew  at 
it  with  such  violence  that  the  lock  im- 
mediately gave  way,  the  door  burst  open, 
and  he  fell  headlong  into  the  room." 

This  rude  and  noisy  action  not  only 
aroused  his  wife  in  another  part  of  the 
house  and  enabled  her  to  make  her  escape, 
but  it  came  near  costing  the  intruder  his 
life,  all  of  which  he  might  have  obviated 
had  he  read  and  observed  Fielding's  prov- 
erb. 

40 


A  marked  feature  of  Fielding's  writings 
is,  that  people  never  rap  or  tap  gently  at 
the  door;  they  always  thunder  or  pound 
uproariously  from  without  —  so  much  so 
that  the  occupants  of  the  room  or  house 
are  usually  thrown  into  consternation,  in 
which  the  reader  in  viewing  the  situation 
from  within  is  inclined  to  join  with  as 
much  curiosity  and  apprehension  as  the 
occupants  themselves. 

"There  is  a  certain  air  of  natural  gen- 
tility," says  Fielding,  "which  is  neither 
in  the  power  of  dress  to  give,  nor  to  con- 
ceal." This  he  applied  to  the  not  very 
well  dressed  Tom  Jones,  who  he  said  was 
"possessed  of  it  to  a  very  eminent  degree. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Jones  was  now  in  a  situation, 
which  sometimes  happens  to  be  the  case 
of  young  gentlemen  of  much  better  figure 
than  himself.  In  short,  he  had  not  one 
penny  in  his  pocket;  a  situation  in  much 
greater  credit  among  the  ancient  philos- 
ophers than  among  the  modern  wise  men 
who  live  in  Lombard  Street,  or  those  who 
frequent  White's  Chocolate-house.  And, 
perhaps,  the  great  honours  which  those 
philosophers  have  ascribed  to  an  empty 
pocket  may  be  one  of  the  reasons  of  that 

41 


high  contempt  in  which  they  are  held  in 
the  aforesaid  street  and  Chocolate-house. 

"Now  if  the  ancient  opinion,  that  men 
might  live  very  comfortably  on  virtue 
only,  be,  as  the  modern  wise  men  just 
above-mentioned  pretend  to  have  discov- 
ered, a  notorious  error;  no  less  false  is, 
I  apprehend,  that  position  of  some  writers 
of  romance,  that  a  man  can  hve  altogether 
on  love;  for  however  delicious  repasts 
this  may  afford  to  some  of  our  senses  or 
appetites,  it  is  most  certain  it  can  afford 
none  to  others.  Those,  therefore,  who  have 
placed  too  great  a  confidence  in  such 
writers,  have  experienced  their  error  when 
it  was  too  late;  and  have  found  that 
love  was  no  more  capable  of  allaying 
hunger  than  a  rose  is  capable  of  delighting 
the  ear,  or  a  violin  of  gratifying  the  smell/* 
And  Fielding  himself  had  good  reason  to 
appreciate  the  soundness  of  this  philosophy; 
for  as  Horace  observed,  — 

Duramque  callet  pauperiem  pati  — 
He   knows  by  experience  how  to  endure  stern 
poverty. 

"There  is  scarce  anything,"  says  Field- 
ing, "which  so  happily  introduces  mfcn 
to   our   good   liking,   as   having  conceived 

42 


some  alarm  at  their  first  appearance;  when 
once  those  apprehensions  b^ki  to  vanish 
we  soon  forget  the  fears  which  they  occa- 
sioned, and  look  on  ourselves  as  indebted 
for  our  present  ease  to  those  very  persons 
who  at  first  raised  our  fears.  Thus  it 
happened  to  Nightingale,  who  no  sooner 
found  that  Jones  had  no  demand  on  him, 
as  he  suspected,  than  he  began  to  be 
pleased  with  his  presence." 

Again:  "Nothing  more  aggravates  ill 
success  than  the  near  approach  to  good. 
The  gamester  who  loses  his  party  at 
piquet  by  a  single  point  laments  his  bad 
luck  ten  times  as  much  as  he  who  never 
came  within  a  prospect  of  the  game. 
So  in  a  lottery,  the  proprietors  of  the 
next  numbers  to  that  which  wins  the 
great  prize  are  apt  to  account  themselves 
much  more  unfortunate  than  their  fellow- 
sufferers.  In  short,  these  kind  of  hair- 
breadth missings  of  happiness  look  like 
the  insults  of  Fortune,  who  may  be  con- 
sidered as  thus  playing  tricks  with  us,  and 
wantonly  diverting  herself  at  our  expense." 

This  he  applied  as  follows:  "Jones,  who 
more  than  once  already  had  experienced 
this  frolicsome  disposition  of  the  heathen 

43 


goddess,  was  now  again  doomed  to  be 
tantalized  in  the  like  manner;"  for  (in 
searching  for  his  lost  Sophia)  **he  arrived 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick  about  ten 
minutes  after  Sophia's  departure." 

Another  instance:  "I  remember  a  wise 
old  gentleman  who  used  to  say,  'When 
children  are  doing  nothing,  they  are  doing 
mischief.'  I  will  not  enlarge  this  quaint 
saying  to  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the 
creation  in  general;  but  so  far  I  may  be 
allowed,  that  when  the  effects  of  female 
jealousy  do  not  appear  openly  in  their 
proper  colours  of  rage  and  fury,  we  may 
suspect  that  mischievous  passion  to  be  at 
work  privately,  and  attempting  to  under- 
mine what  it  doth  not  attack  above- 
ground."  Which  was  used  as  a  prelude 
to  the  following  sentence:  — 

"This  was  exempHfied  in  the  conduct 
of  Lady  Bellaston,  who,  under  all  the  smiles 
which  she  wore  in  her  countenance,  con- 
cealed much  indignation  against  Sophia; 
and  as  she  plainly  saw  that  this  young 
lady  stood  between  her  and  the  full  indul- 
gence of  her  desires,  she  resolved  to  get 
rid  of  her  by  some  means  or  other;  nor 
was  it  long  before  a  very  favourable  oppor- 

44 


tunity  of  accomplishing  this  presented  itself 
to  her.'* 

It  is  curious  to  note  what  a  low  estimate 
was  set  upon  the  talent  and  usefulness  of 
country  parsons  in  Fielding's  time,  —  if 
their  annual  stipend  may  be  used  as  a 
criterion.  The  following  passage  refers  to 
the  immortal  Parson  Adams,  whom  Field- 
ing made  one  of  the  foremost  characters 
in  Hterature:  — 

"His  virtue,  and  his  other  quahfications, 
as  they  rendered  him  equal  to  his  office, 
so  they  made  him  an  agreeable  and  valu- 
able companion,  and  so  much  endeared 
and  well  recommended  him  to  a  bishop, 
that  at  the  age  of  fifty  he  was  provided 
with  a  handsome  income  of  twenty-three 
pounds  a  year;  which,  however,  he  could 
not  make  any  great  figure  with,  because 
he  fived  in  a  dear  country,  and  was  a 
little  encumbered  with  a  wife  and  six 
children." 

This  same  parson  Adams  is  later  reported 
as  having  come  upon  a  villain  in  the  act 
of  attacking  a  defenceless  woman,  and 
with  a  vigor  and  sense  of  justice  that  did 
credit  to  his  calling  he  immediately  took 
a  hand  in  the  fray  —  which  afforded  Field- 

45 


ing    an    occasion    for    the    following    dis- 
quisition on  the  human  skull:  — 

**The  great  abilities  of  Mr.  Adams  were 
not  necessary  to  have  formed  a  right 
judgment  of  this  affair  on  the  first  sight. 
He  did  not  therefore  want  the  entreaties 
of  the  poor  wretch  to  assist  her;  but, 
lifting  up  his  crabstick,  he  immediately 
levelled  a  blow  at  that  part  of  the  ravisher*s 
head  where,  according  to  the  opinion  of 
the  ancients,  the  brains  of  some  persons 
are  deposited,  and  which  he  had  undoubt- 
edly let  forth,  had  not  Nature  (who,  as 
wise  men  have  observed,  equips  all  crea- 
tures with  what  is  most  expedient  for 
them)  taken  a  provident  care  (as  she 
always  doth  with  those  she  intends  for 
encounters)  to  make  this  part  of  the  head 
three  times  as  thick  as  those  of  ordinary 
men  who  are  designed  to  exercise  talents 
which  are  vulgarly  called  rational,  and  for 
whom,  as  brains  are  necessary,  she  is 
obhged  to  leave  some  room  for  them  in  the 
cavity  of  the  skull;  whereas,  those  ingre- 
dients being  entirely  useless  to  persons  of 
the  heroic  calling,  she  hath  an  opportunity 
of  thickening  the  bone,  so  as  to  make  it 
less  subject  to  any   impression,   or  liable 

46 


to  be  cracked  or  broken;  and  indeed, 
in  some  who  are  predestined  to  the  com- 
mand of  armies  and  empires,  she  is  supposed 
sometimes  to  make  that  part  perfectly 
solid." 

From  here  on,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
constant  repetition  of  quotation  marks, 
we  shall  use  brackets  for  all  introductory 
remarks,  headings  and  notes  not  belonging 
to  Fielding  himself. 


47 


AN   ESSAY  TO   PROVE   THAT  AN  AUTHOR  WILL 

WRITE   THE    BETTER    FOR   HAVING    SOME 

KNOWLEDGE    OF   THE    SUBJECT    ON 

WHICH  HE  WRITES 

As  several  gentlemen  in  these  times, 
by  the  wonderful  force  of  genius  only, 
without  the  least  assistance  of  learning, 
perhaps  without  being  well  able  to  read, 
have  made  a  considerable  figure  in  the 
republic  of  letters;  the  modern  critics, 
I  am  told,  have  lately  begun  to  assert, 
that  all  kind  of  learning  is  entirely  useless 
to  a  writer;  and,  indeed,  no  other  than  a 
kind  of  fetters  on  the  natural  sprightliness 
and  activity  of  the  imagination,  which  is 
thus  weighed  down,  and  prevented  from 
soaring  to  those  high  flights  which  other- 
wise it  would  be  able  to  reach. 

This  doctrine,  I  am  afraid,  is  at  present 
carried  much  too  far:  for  why  should 
writing  differ  so  much  from  all  other  arts? 
The  nimbleness  of  a  dancing-master  is  not 
at  all  prejudiced  by  being  taught  to  move; 
nor  doth  any  mechanic,  I  believe,  exercise 

48 


his  tools  the  worse  by  having  learnt  to 
use  them.  For  my  own  part,  I  cannot 
conceive  that  Homer  or  Virgil  would  have 
writ  with  more  fire,  if  instead  of  being 
masters  of  all  the  learning  of  their  times, 
they  had  been  as  ignorant  as  most  of  the 
authors  of  the  present  age.  Nor  do  I 
believe  that  all  the  imagination,  fire,  and 
judgment  of  Pitt  could  have  produced 
those  orations  that  have  made  the  senate 
of  England,  in  these  our  times,  a  rival  in 
eloquence  to  Greece  and  Rome,  if  he  had 
not  been  so  well  read  in  the  writings  of 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  as  to  have  trans- 
ferred their  whole  spirit  into  his  speeches, 
and,  with  their  spirit,  their  knowledge  too. 
I  would  not  here  be  understood  to  insist 
on  the  same  fund  of  learning  in  any  of  my 
brethren,  as  Cicero  persuades  us  is  neces- 
sary to  the  composition  of  an  orator. 
On  the  contrary,  very  Httle  reading  is, 
I  conceive,  necessary  to  the  poet,  less  to 
the  critic,  and  the  least  of  all  to  the  poli- 
tician. For  the  first,  perhaps,  Byshe's 
Art  of  Poetry,  and  a  few  of  our  modern 
poets,  may  suffice ;  for  the  second,  a  moder- 
ate heap  of  plays;  and,  for  the  last,  an 
indifferent  collection  of  political  journals. 

49 


To  say  the  truth,  I  require  no  more  than 
that  a  man  should  have  some  little  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject  on  which  he  treats, 
according  to  the  old  maxim  of  law,  Quam 
quisque  norit  artem  in  ed  se  exerceat.  With 
this  alone  a  writer  may  sometimes  do 
tolerably  well;  and,  indeed,  without  this, 
all  the  other  learning  in  the  world  will 
stand  him  in  little  stead. 

For  instance,  let  us  suppose  that  Homer 
and  Virgil,  Aristotle  and  Cicero,  Thucy- 
dides  and  Livy,  could  have  met  all 
together,  and  have  clubbed  their  several 
talents  to  have  composed  a  treatise  on  the 
art  of  dancing:  I  believe  it  will  be  read- 
ily agreed  they  could  not  have  equalled 
the  excellent  treatise  which  Mr.  Essex 
hath  given  us  on  that  subject,  entitled, 
The  Rudiments  oj  Genteel  Education. 

And,  indeed,  should  the  excellent  Mr. 
Broughton  be  prevailed  on  to  set  fist 
to  paper,  and  to  complete  the  above-said 
rudiments,  by  delivering  down  the  true 
principles  of  athletics,  I  question  whether 
the  world  will  have  any  cause  to  lament, 
that  none  of  the  great  writers,  either 
antient  or  modern,  have  ever  treated  about 
that  noble  and  useful  art. 

50 


To  avoid  a  multiplicity  of  examples 
in  so  plain  a  case,  and  to  come  at  once  to 
my  point,  I  am  apt  to  conceive,  that 
one  reason  why  many  English  writers 
have  totally  failed  in  describing  the  man- 
ners of  upper  life,  may  possibly  be,  that 
in  reality  they  know  nothing  of  it. 

This  is  a  knowledge  unhappily  not  in 
the  power  of  many  authors  to  arrive  at. 
Books  will  give  us  a  very  imperfect  idea 
of  it;  nor  will  the  stage  a  much  better: 
the  fine  gentleman  formed  upon  reading 
the  former  will  almost  always  turn  out 
a  pedant,  and  he  who  forms  himself  upon 
the  latter,  a  coxcomb. 

Nor  are  the  characters  drawn  from  these 
models  better  supported.  Vanbrugh  and 
Congreve  copied  nature;  but  they  who 
copy  them  draw  as  unlike  the  present  age 
as  Hogarth  would  do  if  he  was  to  paint 
a  rout  or  a  drum  in  the  dresses  of  Titian 
and  of  Vandyke.  In  short,  imitation  here 
will  not  do  the  business.  The  picture 
must  be  after  Nature  herself.  A  true 
knowledge  of  the  world  is  gained  only  by 
conversation,  and  the  manners  of  every 
rank  must  be  seen  in  order  to  be  known. 

Now  it  happens  that  this  higher  order 

51 


of  mortals  is  not  to  be  seen,  like  all  the 
rest  of  the  human  species,  for  nothing, 
in  the  streets,  shops,  and  coffee-houses: 
nor  are  they  shown,  like  the  upper  rank 
of  animals,  for  so  much  a-piece.  In  short, 
this  is  a  sight  to  which  no  persons  are 
admitted  without  one  or  other  of  these 
qualifications,  viz.,  either  birth  or  fortune, 
or,  what  is  equivalent  to  both,  the  honour- 
able profession  of  a  gamester.  And,  very 
unluckily  for  the  world,  persons  so  qualified 
very  seldom  care  to  take  upon  themselves 
the  bad  trade  of  writing;  which  is  generally 
entered  upon  by  the  lower  and  poorer 
sort,  as  it  is  a  trade  which  many  think 
requires  no  kind  of  stock  to  set  up  with. 

Hence  those  strange  monsters  in  lace 
and  embroidery,  in  silks  and  brocades, 
with  vast  wigs  and  hoops;  which,  under 
the  name  of  lords  and  ladies,  strut  the 
stage,  to  the  great  delight  of  attorneys 
and  their  clerks  in  the  pit,  and  of  the 
citizens  and  their  apprentices  in  the  gal- 
leries; and  which  are  no  more  to  be  found 
in  real  life  than  the  centaur,  the  chimera, 
or  any  other  creature  of  mere  fiction. 
But  to  let  my  reader  into  a  secret,  this 
knowledge  of  upper  life,  though  very  neces- 

52 


sary  for  preventing  mistakes,  is  no  very- 
great  resource  to  a  writer  whose  province 
is  comedy,  or  that  kind  of  novels  which, 
like  this  I  am  writing,  is  of  the  comic  class. 

What  Mr.  Pope  says  of  women  is  very 
applicable  to  most  in  this  station,  who  are, 
indeed,  so  entirely  made  up  of  form  and 
affectation,  that  they  have  no  character 
at  all,  at  least  none  which  appears.  I 
will  venture  to  say  the  highest  life  is  much 
the  dullest,  and  affords  very  little  humour 
or  entertainment.  The  various  callings  in 
lower  spheres  produce  the  great  variety  of 
liumorous  characters;  whereas  here,  except 
among  the  few  who  are  engaged  in  the 
pursuit  of  ambition,  and  the  fewer  still 
who  have  a  relish  for  pleasure,  all  is  vanity 
and  servile  imitation.  Dressing  and  cards, 
eating  and  drinking,  bowing  and  courtesy- 
ing,  make  up  the  business  of  their  lives. 

Some  there  are,  however,  of  this  rank 
upon  whom  passion  exercises  its  tyranny, 
and  hurries  them  far  beyond  the  bounds 
which  decorum  prescribes;  of  these  the 
ladies  are  as  much  distinguished  by  their 
noble  intrepidity,  and  a  certain  superior 
contempt  of  reputation,  from  the  frail 
ones  of  meaner  degree,  as  a  virtuous  woman 

53 


of  quality  is  by  the  elegance  and  delicacy 
of  her  sentiments  from  the  honest  wife  of 
a  yeoman  and  shopkeeper.  Lady  Bellas- 
ton  was  of  this  intrepid  character;  but 
let  not  my  country  readers  conclude  from 
her,  that  this  is  the  general  conduct  of 
women  of  fashion,  or  that  we  mean  to 
represent  them  as  such.  They  might  as 
well  suppose  that  every  clergyman  was 
represented  by  Thwackum,  or  every  soldier 
by  ensign  Northerton. 

There  is  not,  indeed,  a  greater  error 
than  that  which  universally  prevails  among 
the  vulgar,  who,  borrowing  their  opinion 
from  some  ignorant  satirists,  have  affixed 
the  character  of  lewdness  to  these  times. 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  convinced  there 
never  was  less  of  love  intrigue  carried  on 
among  persons  of  condition  than  now. 
Our  present  women  have  been  taught  by 
their  mothers  to  fix  their  thoughts  only 
on  ambition  and  vanity,  and  to  despise 
the  pleasures  of  love  as  unworthy  their 
regard;  and  being  afterwards,  by  the  care 
of  such  mothers,  married  without  having 
husbands,  they  seem  pretty  well  confirmed 
in  the  justness  of  those  sentiments;  whence 
they  content  themselves,   for  the  dull  re- 

54 


mainder  of  life,  with  the  pursuit  of  more 
innocent,  but  I  am  afraid  more  childish, 
amusements,  the  bare  mention  of  which 
would  ill  suit  with  the  dignity  of  this 
history.  In  my  humble  opinion,  the  true 
characteristic  of  the  present  beau  monde 
is  rather  folly  than  vice,  and  the  only 
epithet  which  it  deserves  is  that  of  frivo- 
lous. 

[chapter  I  OF  Tom  Jones^ 

THE   INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  WORK,    OR   BILL 
OF    FARE   TO   THE    FEAST 

An  author  ought  to  consider  himself 
not  as  a  gentleman  who  gives  a  private 
or  eleemosynary  treat,  but  rather  as  one 
who  keeps  a  pubhc  ordinary,  at  which 
all  persons  are  welcome  for  their  money. 
In  the  former  case,  it  is  well  known  that 
the  entertainer  provides  what  fare  he 
pleases;  and  though  this  should  be  very 
indifferent,  and  utterly  disagreeable  to  the 
taste  of  his  company,  they  must  not  find 
any  fault;  nay,  on  the  contrary,  good 
breeding  forces  them  outwardly  to  approve 
and  to  commend  whatever  is  set  before 
them.     Now  the  contrary  of  this  happens 

55 


to  the  master  of  an  ordinary.  Men  who 
pay  for  what  they  eat  will  insist  on  grati- 
fying their  palates,  however  nice  and  whim- 
sical these  may  prove;  and  if  everything 
is  not  agreeable  to  their  taste,  will  challenge 
a  right  to  censure,  to  abuse,  and  to  d — n 
their  dinner  without  controul. 

To  prevent,  therefore,  giving  offence  to 
their  customers  by  any  such  disappoint- 
ment, it  hath  been  usual  with  the  honest 
and  well-meaning  host  to  provide  a  bill 
of  fare  which  all  persons  may  peruse 
at  their  first  entrance  into  the  house; 
and  having  thence  acquainted  themselves 
with  the  entertainment  which  they  may 
expect,  may  either  stay  and  regale  with 
what  is  provided  for  them,  or  may  depart 
to  some  other  ordinary  better  accommo- 
dated to  their  taste. 

As  we  do  not  disdain  to  borrow  wit  or 
wisdom  from  any  man  who  is  capable  of 
lending  us  either,  we  have  condescended 
to  take  a  hint  from  these  honest  victuallers, 
and  shall  prefix  not  only  a  general  bill  of 
fare  to  our  whole  entertainment,  but  shall 
likewise  give  the  reader  particular  bills 
to  every  course  which  is  to  be  served  up  in 
this  and  the  ensuing  volumes. 

56 


The  provision,  then,  which  we  have  here 
made  is  no  other  than  Human  Nature. 
Nor  do  I  fear  that  my  sensible  reader, 
though  most  luxurious  in  his  taste,  will 
start,  cavil,  or  be  offended,  because  I 
have  named  but  one  article.  The  tortoise 
—  as  the  alderman  of  Bristol,  well  learned 
in  eating,  knows  by  much  experience  — 
besides  the  delicious  calipash  and  calipee, 
contains  many  different  kinds  of  food; 
nor  can  the  learned  reader  be  ignorant, 
that  in  human  nature,  though  here  col- 
lected under  one  general  name,  is  such 
prodigious  variety,  that  a  cook  will  have 
sooner  gone  through  all  the  several  species 
of  animal  and  vegetable  food  in  the  world, 
than  an  author  will  be  able  to  exhaust 
so  extensive  a  subject. 

An  objection  may  perhaps  be  appre- 
hended from  the  more  delicate,  that  this 
dish  is  too  common  and  vulgar;  for  what 
else  is  the  subject  of  all  the  romances, 
novels,  plays,  and  poems,  with  which  the 
stalls  abound?  Many  exquisite  viands 
might  be  rejected  by  the  epicure,  if  it  was 
a  sufficient  cause  for  his  contemning  of 
them  as  common  and  vulgar,  that  some- 
thing was  to  be  found  in  the  most  paltry 

57 


alleys  under  the  same  name.  In  reality, 
true  nature  is  as  difficult  to  be  met  with 
in  authors,  as  the  Bayonne  ham,  or  Bo- 
logna sausage,  is  to  be  found  in  the  shops. 
But  the  whole,  to  continue  the  same 
metaphor,  consists  in  the  cookery  of  the 
author;    for,  as  Mr.  Pope  tells  us  — 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  drest; 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  exprest. 

The  same  animal  which  hath  the  honour 
to  have  some  part  of  his  flesh  eaten  at 
the  table  of  a  duke,  may  perhaps  be  de- 
graded in  another  part,  and  some  of  his 
limbs  gibbeted,  as  it  were,  in  the  vilest 
stall  in  town.  Where,  then,  lies  the  dif- 
ference between  the  food  of  the  nobleman 
and  the  porter,  if  both  are  at  dinner  on 
the  same  ox  or  calf,  but  in  the  seasoning, 
the  dressing,  the  garnishing,  and  the  setting 
forth?  Hence  the  one  provokes  and  in- 
cites the  most  languid  appetite,  and  the 
other  turns  and  palls  that  which  is  the 
sharpest  and  keenest. 

In  like  manner,  the  excellence  of  the 
mental  entertainment  consists  less  in  the 
subject  than  in  the  author's  skill  in  well 
dressing  it  up.    How  pleased,  therefore,  will 

58 


the  reader  be  to  find  that  we  have,  in  the 
following  work,  adhered  closely  to  one 
of  the  highest  principles  of  the  best  cook 
which  the  present  age,  or  perhaps  that  of 
Heliogabalus,  hath  produced.  This  great 
man,  as  is  well  known  to  all  lovers  of 
polite  eating,  begins  at  first  by  setting 
plain  things  before  his  hungry  guests, 
rising  afterwards  by  degrees  as  their 
stomachs  may  be  supposed  to  decrease, 
to  the  very  quintessence  of  sauce  and 
spices.  In  hke  manner,  we  shall  represent 
human  nature  at  first  to  the  keen  appetite 
of  our  reader,  in  that  more  plain  and 
simple  manner  in  which  it  is  found  in  the 
country,  and  shall  hereafter  hash  and 
ragoo  it  with  all  the  high  French  and 
Italian  seasoning  of  affectation  and  vice 
which  courts  and  cities  afford.  By  these 
means,  we  doubt  not  but  our  reader  may 
be  rendered  desirous  to  read  on  for  ever, 
as  the  great  person  just  above-mentioned 
is  supposed  to  have  made  some  persons 
eat. 

[In  one  of  the  subsequent  chapters  of 
Tom  Jones,  when  the  neighborhood  were 
all    busily    engaged    in    ferreting    out    the 

59 


parentage  of  the  infant  foundling  —  who 
was  later  named  Tom  Jones  —  Fielding 
relates  an  experience  that  fell  to  the  lot 
of  a  poor,  virtuous,  unattractive  and  in- 
offensive pedagogue  named  Partridge,  who 
became  a  victim  of  gossip  and  circum- 
stances far  more  conducive  to  the  reader's 
amusement  than  they  were  to  Partridge's 
complacency  of  mind.  As  a  result  he 
lost  his  wife,  and  what  was  far  more  re- 
grettable, he  lost  his  position  as  school- 
master. In  after  years  he  became  the 
^wandering  companion  of  Tom  Jones  when 
that  youth  was  cast  upon  the  world. 

Fielding  thus  prefaces  and  describes  the 
"battle,"  as  he  calls  it,  though  the  only 
battling  the  innocent  pedagogue  did  was 
of  a  purely  defensive  nature:  —  ] 

Perfect  calms  at  sea  are  always  suspected 
by  the  experienced  mariner  to  be  the  fore- 
runners of  a  storm:  and  I  know  some  per- 
sons, who,  without  being  generally  the 
devotees  of  superstition,  are  apt  to  appre- 
hend that  great  and  unusual  peace  or 
tranquillity  will  be  attended  with  its  oppo- 
site. For  which  reason  the  ancients  used, 
on  such  occasions,  to  sacrifice  to  the  god- 
dess  Nemesis,   a  deity   who  was   thought 

60 


by  them  to  look  with  an  invidious  eye  on 
human  felicity,  and  to  have  a  peculiar 
delight  in  overturning  it. 

As  we  are  very  far  from  believing  in 
any  such  heathen  goddess,  or  from  encour- 
aging any  superstition,  so  we  wish  Mr. 
John  Fr ,  or  some  other  such  philos- 
opher, would  bestir  himself  a  little,  in 
order  to  find  out  the  real  cause  of  this 
sudden  transition  from  good  to  bad  for- 
tune, which  hath  been  so  often  remarked, 
and  of  which  we  shall  proceed  to  give  an 
instance;  for  it  is  our  province  to  relate 
facts,  and  we  shall  leave  causes  to  persons 
of  much  higher  genius. 

Mankind  have  always  taken  great  de- 
light in  knowing  and  descanting  on  the 
actions  of  others.  Hence  there  have  been, 
in  all  ages  and  nations,  certain  places  set 
apart  for  public  rendezvous,  where  the 
curious  might  meet  and  satisfy  their  mu- 
tual curiosity.  Among  these,  the  barbers' 
shops  have  justly  borne  the  pre-eminence. 
Among  the  Greeks,  barbers'  news  was 
a  proverbial  expression;  and  Horace,  in 
one  of  his  epistles,  makes  honourable  men- 
tion of  the  Roman  barbers  in  the  same 
light. 

6i 


Those  of  England  are  known  to  be  no- 
wise inferior  to  their  Greek  or  Roman 
predecessors.  You  there  see  foreign  affairs 
discussed  in  a  manner  little  inferior  to 
that  with  which  they  are  handled  in  the 
coffee-houses;  and  domestic  occurrences 
are  much  more  largely  and  freely  treated 
in  the  former  than  in  the  latter.  But  this 
serves  only  for  the  men.  Now,  whereas 
the  females  of  this  country,  especially 
those  of  the  lower  order,  do  associate 
themselves  much  more  than  those  of  other 
nations,  our  polity  would  be  highly  de- 
ficient, if  they  had  not  some  place  set 
apart  likewise  for  the  indulgence  of  their 
curiosity,  seeing  they  are  in  this  no  way 
inferior  to  the  other  half  of  the  species. 

In  enjoying,  therefore,  such  place  of 
rendezvous,  the  British  fair  ought  to  esteem 
themselves  more  happy  than  any  of  their 
foreign  sisters;  as  I  do  not  remember 
either  to  have  read  in  history,  or  to  have 
seen  in  my  travels,  anything  of  the  like 
kind. 

This  place  then  is  no  other  than  the 
chandler's  shop,  the  known  seat  of  all  the 
news;  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called,  gossiping, 
in  every  parish  in  England. 

62 


Mrs.  Partridge  being  one  day  at  this 
assembly  of  females,  was  asked  by  one 
of  her  neighbours,  if  she  had  heard  no 
news  lately  of  Jenny  Jones?  To  which 
she  answered  in  the  negative.  Upon  this 
the  other  replied,  with  a  smile.  That  the 
parish  was  very  much  obliged  to  her  for 
having  turned  Jenny  away  as  she  did. 

Mrs.  Partridge,  whose  jealousy,  as  the 
reader  well  knows,  was  long  since  cured, 
and  who  had  no  other  quarrel  to  her  maid, 
answered  boldly.  She  did  not  know  any 
obhgation  the  parish  had  to  her  on  that 
account;  for  she  believed  Jenny  had  scarce 
left  her  equal  behind  her. 

[Her  good  neighbor  then  very  ingen- 
iously informed  her  that  Jenny — who  had 
been  a  domestic  in  the  Partridge  home, 
from  which  she  had  been  less  than  nine 
months  absent  —  had  lately  become  the 
mother  of  a  pair  of  twins,  —  in  which 
statement,  however,  there  was  not  a  word 
of  truth.  Fielding  then  proceeds  to  de- 
scribe the  unhappy  results  of  this  malicious 
fabrication :  —  ] 

Nothing  can  be  so  quick  and  sudden 
as  the  operations  of  the  mind,  especially 
when  hope,  or  fear,  or  jealousy,  to  which 

63 


the  two  others  are  but  journeymen,  set 
it  to  work.  It  occurred  instantly  to  her 
that  Jenny  had  scarce  ever  been  out  of  her 
own  house  while  she  lived  with  her.  The 
leaning  over  the  chair,  the  sudden  start- 
ing up,  the  Latin,  the  smile,  and  many 
other  things,  rushed  upon  her  all  at  once. 
The  satisfaction  her  husband  expressed 
in  the  departure  of  Jenny  appeared  now 
to  be  only  dissembled;  again,  in  the  same 
instant,  to  be  real;  but  yet  to  confirm 
her  jealousy,  proceeding  from  satiety,  and 
a  hundred  other  bad  causes.  In  a  word, 
she  was  convinced  of  her  husband's  guilt, 
and  immediately  left  the  assembly  in  con- 
fusion. 

As  fair  Grimalkin,  who,  though  the 
youngest  of  the  feline  family,  degenerates 
not  in  ferocity  from  the  elder  branches  of 
her  house,  and  though  inferior  in  strength, 
is  equal  in  fierceness  to  the  noble  tiger 
himself,  when  a  little  mouse,  whom  it 
hath  long  tormented  in  sport,  escapes 
from  her  clutches  for  a  while,  frets,  scolds, 
growls,  swears;  but  if  the  trunk,  or  box, 
behind  which  the  mouse  lay  hid  be  again 
removed,  she  flies  like  lightning  on  her 
prey,   and   with   envenomed   wrath,   bites, 

64 


scratches,  mumbles,  and  tears  the  little 
animal. 

Not  with  less  fury  did  Mrs.  Partridge 
fly  on  the  poor  pedagogue.  Her  tongue, 
teeth,  and  hands,  fell  all  upon  him  at  once. 
His  wig  was  in  an  instant  torn  from  his 
head,  his  shirt  from  his  back,  and  from 
his  face  descended  five  streams  of  blood, 
denoting  the  number  of  claws  with  which 
nature  had  unhappily  armed  the  enemy. 

Mr.  Partridge  acted  for  some  time  on 
the  defensive  only;  indeed  he  attempted 
only  to  guard  his  face  with  his  hands; 
but  as  he  found  that  his  antagonist  abated 
nothing  of  her  rage,  he  thought  he  might, 
at  least,  endeavour  to  disarm  her,  or  rather 
to  confine  her  arms;  in  doing  which  her 
cap  fell  off  in  the  struggle,  and  her  hair 
being  too  short  to  reach  her  shoulders, 
erected  itself  on  her  head;  her  stays 
likewise,  which  were  laced  through  one 
single  hole  at  the  bottom,  burst  open; 
and  her  breasts,  which  were  much  more 
redundant  than  her  hair,  hung  down  be- 
low her  middle;  her  face  was  likewise 
marked  with  the  blood  of  her  husband, 
her  teeth  gnashed  with  rage;  and  fire, 
such    as    sparkles    from    a    smith's    forge, 

65 


darted  from  her  eyes.  So  that,  altogether, 
this  Amazonian  heroine  might  have  been 
an  object  of  terror  to  a  much  bolder  man 
than  Mr.  Partridge. 

He  had,  at  length,  the  good  fortune, 
by  getting  possession  of  her  arms,  to  render 
those  weapons  which  she  wore  at  the  ends 
of  her  fingers  useless;  which  she  no  sooner 
perceived,  than  the  softness  of  her  sex 
prevailed  over  her  rage,  and  she  presently 
dissolved  in  tears,  which  soon  after  con- 
cluded in  a  fit. 

That  small  share  of  sense  which  Mr. 
Partridge  had  hitherto  preserved  through 
this  scene  of  fury,  of  the  cause  of  which 
he  was  hitherto  ignorant,  now  utterly 
abandoned  him.  He  ran  instantly  into 
the  street,  hallowing  out  that  his  wife 
was  in  the  agonies  of  death,  and  beseech- 
ing the  neighbours  to  fly  with  the  utmost 
haste  to  her  assistance.  Several  good 
women  obeyed  his  summons,  who  entering 
his  house,  and  applying  the  usual  remedies 
on  such  occasions,  Mrs.  Partridge  was 
at  length,  to  the  great  joy  of  her  husband, 
brought  to  herself. 

As  soon  as  she  had  a  little  recollected 
her  spirits,  and  somewhat  composed  her- 

66 


self  with  a  cordial,  she  began  to  inform 
the  company  of  the  manifold  injuries  she 
had  received  from  her  husband;  who, 
she  said,  was  not  contented  to  injure 
her  in  her  bed;  but,  upon  her  upbraiding 
him  with  it,  had  treated  her  in  the  crudest 
manner  imaginable;  had  tore  her  cap 
and  hair  from  her  head,  and  her  stays 
from  her  body,  giving  her,  at  the  same 
time,  several  blows,  the  marks  of  which 
she  should  carry  to  the  grave. 

The  poor  man,  who  bore  on  his  face 
many  more  visible  marks  of  the  indig- 
nation of  his  wife,  stood  in  silent  astonish- 
ment at  this  accusation;  which  the  reader 
will,  I  believe,  bear  witness  for  him,  had 
greatly  exceeded  the  truth;  for  indeed 
he  had  not  struck  her  once;  and  this 
silence  being  interpreted  to  be  a  confession 
of  the  charge  by  the  whole  court,  they 
all  began  at  once,  una  voce,  to  rebuke  and 
revile  him,  repeating  often,  that  none  but 
a  coward  ever  struck  a  woman. 

Mr.  Partridge  bore  all  this  patiently; 
but  when  his  wife  appealed  to  the  blood 
on  her  face,  as  an  evidence  of  his  barbarity, 
he  could  not  help  laying  claim  to  his 
own   blood,    for   so   it   really   was;    as   he 

67 


thought  it  very  unnatural,  that  this  should 
rise  up  (as  we  are  taught  that  of  a  mur- 
dered person  often  doth)  in  vengeance 
against  him. 

To  this  the  women  made  no  other  answer, 
than  that  it  was  a  pity  it  had  not  come 
from  his  heart,  instead  of  his  face;  all 
declaring,  that,  if  their  husbands  should 
lift  their  hands  against  them,  they  would 
have  their  hearts'  blood  out  of  their  bodies. 


Pn  Tom  Jones,  Fielding  wrote  the  follow- 
ing prelude  to  the  appearance  of  his  young 
heroine  in  the  book.  It  is  worthy  of  note 
that  the  model  he  used  for  this  exemplary- 
character,  upon  whom  he  bestowed  every 
grace  and  beauty  of  physical  and  mental 
form  that  his  inventive  mind  could  con- 
jure up,  was  no  other  than  his  sainted 
wife.  In  this  book  she  was  the  adorable 
sweetheart  of  the  hero;  while  later,  in  his 
Amelia,  she  became  the  titular  heroine 
of  that  book  as  the  wife  of  Booth,  and 
was  there  endowed  with  almost  every 
charm  and  womanly  virtue  that  could 
be  attributed  to  one  of  her  sex. 

Fielding's  wife  was  greatly  beloved  not 

68 


J 


only  by  her  husband  but  also  by  a  faithful 
and  intelligent  house-maid,  who  lamented 
her  death  almost  as  deeply  as  Fielding 
himself  did.  In  thus  mingling  their  com- 
mon sorrows  they  became  so  attached  to 
each  other  that  later  they  decided  to  get 
married;  and,  perhaps  profiting  by  the 
example  of  her  mistress,  she  made  him  a 
most  excellent  second  wife:  —  ] 

We  shall  leave  to  the  reader  to  determine 
with  what  judgment  we  have  chosen  the 
several  occasions  for  inserting  those  orna- 
mental parts  of  our  work.  Surely  it  will 
be  allowed  that  none  could  be  more  proper 
than  the  present,  where  we  are  about  to 
introduce  a  considerable  character  on  the 
scene;  no  less,  indeed,  than  the  heroine 
of  this  heroic,  historical,  prosaic  poem. 
Here,  therefore,  we  have  thought  proper 
to  prepare  the  mind  of  the  reader  for  her 
reception,  by  filling  it  with  every  pleasing 
image  which  we  can  draw  from  the  face 
of  nature.  And  for  this  method  we  plead 
many  predecents.  First,  this  is  an  art 
well  known  to,  and  much  practised  by, 
our  tragick  poets,  who  seldom  fail  to 
prepare  their  audience  for  the  reception 
of  their  principal  characters. 

69 


Thus  the  heroe  is  always  introduced 
with  a  flourish  of  drums  and  trumpets, 
in  order  to  rouse  a  martial  spirit  in  the 
audience,  and  to  accommodate  their  ears 
to  bombast  and  fustian,  which  Mr.  Locke's 
bUnd  man  would  not  have  grossly  erred 
in  likening  to  the  sound  of  a  trumpet. 
Again,  when  lovers  are  coming  forth,  soft 
music  often  conducts  them  on  the  stage, 
either  to  soothe  the  audience  with  the 
softness  of  the  tender  passion,  or  to  lull 
and  prepare  them  for  that  gentle  slumber 
in  which  they  will  most  probably  be  com- 
posed by  the  ensuing  scene. 

And  not  only  the  poets,  but  the  masters 
of  these  poets,  the  managers  of  playhouses, 
seem  to  be  in  this  secret;  for,  besides  the 
aforesaid  kettle-drums,  &c.,  which  denote 
the  heroe's  approach,  he  is  generally 
ushered  on  the  stage  by  a  large  troop  of 
half  a  dozen  scene-shifters;  and  how  neces- 
sary these  are  imagined  to  his  appearance, 
may  be  concluded  from  the  following 
theatrical  story :  — 

King  Pyrrhus  was  at  dinner  at  an  ale- 
house bordering  on  the  theatre,  when  he 
was  summoned  to  go  on  the  stage.  The 
heroe,  being  unwilling  to  quit  his  shoulder 

70 


of  mutton,  and  as  unwilling  to  draw  on 
himself  the  indignation  of  Mr.  Wilks  (his 
brother-manager)  for  making  the  audience 
wait,  had  bribed  these  his  harbingers  to 
be  out  of  the  way.  While  Mr.  Wilks, 
therefore,  was  thundering  out,  "Where 
are  the  carpenters  to  walk  on  before 
King  Pyrrhus?"  that  monarch  very  quietly 
ate  his  mutton,  and  the  audience,  however 
impatient,  were  obliged  to  entertain  them- 
selves with  music  in  his  absence. 

To  be  plain,  I  much  question  whether 
the  politician,  who  hath  generally  a  good 
nose,  hath  not  scented  out  somewhat  of 
the  utility  of  this  practice.  I  am  convinced 
that  awful  magistrate  my  lord-mayor  con- 
tracts a  good  deal  of  that  reverence  which 
attends  him  through  the  year,  by  the 
several  pageants  which  precede  his  pomp. 
Nay,  I  must  confess,  that  even  I  myself, 
who  am  not  remarkably  liable  to  be  capti- 
vated with  show,  have  yielded  not  a  little 
to  the  impressions  of  much  preceding  state. 
When  I  have  seen  a  man  strutting  in  a 
procession,  after  others  whose  business 
was  only  to  walk  before  him,  I  have  con- 
ceived a  higher  notion  of  his  dignity  than 
I  have  felt  on  seeing  him  in  a  common 

71 


situation.  But  there  is  one  instance,  which 
comes  exactly  up  to  my  purpose.  This 
is  the  custom  of  sending  on  a  basket- 
woman,  who  is  to  precede  the  pomp  at 
a  coronation,  and  to  strew  the  stage  with 
flowers,  before  the  great  personages  begin 
their  procession.  The  antients  would  cer- 
tainly have  invoked  the  goddess  Flora 
for  this  purpose,  and  it  would  have  been 
no  difficulty  for  their  priests,  or  politicians 
to  have  persuaded  the  people  of  the  real 
presence  of  the  deity,  though  a  plain  mortal 
had  personated  her  and  performed  her 
office.  But  we  have  no  such  design  of 
imposing  on  our  reader;  and  therefore 
those  who  object  to  the  heathen  theology 
may,  if  they  please,  change  our  goddess 
into  the  above-mentioned  basket-woman. 
Our  intention,  in  short,  is  to  introduce  our 
heroine  with  the  utmost  solemnity  in  our 
power,  with  an  elevation  of  stile,  and 
all  other  circumstances  proper  to  raise  the 
veneration  of  our  reader.  Indeed  we  would, 
for  certain  causes,  advise  those  of  our 
male  readers  who  have  any  hearts,  to  read 
no  farther,  were  we  not  well  assured, 
that  how  amiable  soever  the  picture  of 
our  heroine  will  appear,  as  it  is  really  a 

72 


copy  from  nature,  many  of  our  fair  country- 
women will  be  found  worthy  to  satisfy 
any  passion,  and  to  answer  any  idea  of 
female  perfection  which  our  pencil  will 
be  able  to  raise. 


[about  physicians] 

[In  an  early  chapter  of  Tom  Jones, 
Captain  Blifil  expired  of  heart  failure, 
was  brought  from  the  garden  into  the 
house,  and  two  eminent  physicians  were 
called  to  attend  him.  Without  first  ascer- 
taining whether  life  was  extinct  they 
promptly  fell  into  a  violent  dispute  over 
his  ailment,  of  which  Fielding  gives  the 
following  account.  His  playful  remarks  are 
of  course  not  to  be  taken  seriously,  for 
no  one  held  a  higher  place  in  his  esteem 
than  the  practitioners  in  this  honorable  \ 
calling:  —  ]  | 

Hence  arose  a  dispute  between  the 
learned  men,  in  which  each  delivered  the 
reasons  of  their  several  opinions.  These 
were  of  such  equal  force,  that  they  served 
both  to  confirm  either  doctor  in  his  own 
sentiments,  and  made  not  the  least  impres- 
sion on  his  adversary. 

73 


To  say  the  truth,  every  physician  almost 
hath  his  favourite  disease,  to  which  he 
ascribes  all  the  victories  obtained  over  hu- 
man nature.  The  gout,  the  rheumatism, 
the  stone,  the  gravel,  and  the  consump- 
tion, have  all  their  several  patrons  in  the 
faculty;  and  none  more  than  the  nervous 
fever,  or  the  fever  on  the  spirits.  .  .  . 

The  reader  may  perhaps  be  surprized, 
that,  instead  of  endeavouring  to  revive 
the  patient,  the  learned  gentlemen  should 
fall  immediately  into  a  dispute  on  the 
occasion  of  his  death.  .  .  . 

There  is  nothing  more  unjust  than  the 
vulgar  opinion,  by  which  physicians  are 
misrepresented,  as  friends  to  death.  On 
the  contrary,  I  believe,  if  the  number  of 
those  who  recover  by  physic  could  be 
opposed  to  that  of  the  martyrs  to  it,  the 
former  would  rather  exceed  the  latter. 
Nay,  some  are  so  cautious  on  this  head, 
that,  to  avoid  a  possibility  of  killing  the 
patient,  they  abstain  from  all  methods 
of  curing,  and  prescribe  nothing  but  what 
can  neither  do  good  nor  harm.  I  have 
heard  some  of  these,  with  great  gravity, 
deliver  it  as  a  maxim,  "That  Nature 
should  be  left  to  do  her  own  work,  while 

74 


the  physician  stands  by  as  it  were  to  clap 
her  on  the  back,  and  encourage  her  when 
she  doth  well."  .  .  . 

As  a  wise  general  never  despises  his 
enemy,  however  inferior  that  enemy's  force 
may  be,  so  neither  doth  a  wise  physician 
ever  despise  a  distemper,  however  incon- 
siderable. As  the  former  preserves  the  same 
strict  discipline,  places  the  same  guards, 
and  employs  the  same  scouts,  though  the 
enemy  be  never  so  wekk;  so  the  lat- 
ter maintains  the  same  gravity  of  counte- 
nance, and  shakes  his  head  with  the  same 
significant  air,  let  the  distemper  be  never 
so  trifling.  And  both,  among  many  other 
good  ones,  may  assign  this  solid  reason 
for  their  conduct,  that  by  these  means 
the  greater  glory  redounds  to  them  if  they 
gain  the  victory,  and  the  less  disgrace 
if  by  any  unlucky  accident  they  should 
happen  to  be  conquered. 


[While  Fielding  took  great  delight  in 
setting  his  characters  in  the  so-called  upper 
class  at  variance  with  one  another  in 
matters  of  great  moment,  such  as  Learning, 
Aff^airs   of  State,    and   profound   problems 

75 


of  moral  and  mental  import,  he  did  not 
despise  the  impolite  pastimes  of  the  lower 
order  of  society;  and  the  fact  that  he 
frequently  had  this  latter  class  engaging 
I  in  quarrels,  brawls  and  fistic  combats 
shows  how  faithfully  he  depicted  their 
natural  bent;  for  although  all  low-bred 
people  are  not  quarrelsome,  it  may  be 
set  down  as  an  almost  infallible  rule  that 
all  quarrelsome  people  are  ill-bred.  And 
yet  one  of  the  strange  anomalies  of  human 
nature  is,  that  the  most  contentious  and 
irascible  persons  always  wonder  why  others 
are  so  quarrelsome  and  stubborn. 

Fielding's  hero,  Tom  Jones,  having  res- 
cued a  poor  woman  from  the  hands  of  a 
villain  on  the  highway,  took  her  to  a  nearby 
country  inn  for  shelter.  Having  lost  the 
greater  part  of  her  clothing  in  the  scrim- 
mage, and  thus  not  presenting  a  very  tidy 
appearance,  the  landlord  and  his  lady 
refused  her  admittance.  Jones  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  her  upstairs,  after  which 
the  following  lively  fracas  is  chronicled  by 
Fielding:  — ] 

Now  it  required  no  very  blameable 
degree  of  suspicion  to  imagine  that  Mr. 
Jones  and  his  ragged  companion  had  cer- 

76 


tain  purposes  in  their  intention,  which, 
though  tolerated  in  some  Christian  coun- 
tries, connived  at  in  others,  and  practised 
in  all,  are  however  as  expressly  forbidden 
as  murder,  or  any  other  horrid  vice,  by 
that  religion  which  is  universally  believed 
in  those  countries.  The  landlady,  there- 
fore, had  no  sooner  received  an  intimation 
of  the  entrance  of  the  above-said  persons 
than  she  began  to  meditate  the  most 
expeditious  means  for  their  expulsion.  In 
order  to  this,  she  had  provided  herself 
with  a  long  and  deadly  instrument,  with 
which,  in  times  of  peace,  the  chambermaid 
was  wont  to  demolish  the  labours  of  the 
industrious  spider.  In  vulgar  phrase,  she 
had  taken  up  the  broomstick,  and  was  just 
about  to  sally  from  the  kitchen,  when 
Jones  accosted  her  with  a  demand  of  a 
gown  and  other  vestments,  to  cover  the 
half-naked  woman  upstairs. 

Nothing  can  be  more  provoking  to  the 
human  temper,  nor  more  dangerous  to 
that  cardinal  virtue,  patience,  than  solici- 
tations of  extraordinary  offices  of  kind- 
ness on  behalf  of  those  very  persons  with 
whom  we  are  highly  incensed.  For  this 
reason  Shakespear  hath  artfully  introduced 

77 


his  Desdemona  soliciting  favours  for  Cassio 
of  her  husband,  as  the  means  of  inflaming, 
not  only  his  jealousy,  but  his  rage,  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  madness;  and  we  find 
the  unfortunate  Moor  less  able  to  command 
his  passion  on  this  occasion,  than  even 
when  he  beheld  his  valued  present  to  his 
wife  in  the  hands  of  his  supposed  rival. 
In  fact,  we  regard  these  efforts  as  insults 
on  our  understanding,  and  to  such  the 
pride  of  man  is  very  difficultly  brought  to 
submit. 

My  landlady,  though  a  very  good-tem- 
pered woman,  had,  I  suppose,  some  of 
this  pride  in  her  composition,  for  Jones 
had  scarce  ended  his  request,  when  she 
fell  upon  him  with  a  certain  weapon, 
which,  though  it  be  neither  long,  nor 
sharp,  nor  hard,  nor  indeed  threatens 
from  its  appearance  with  either  death  or 
wound,  hath  been  however  held  in  great 
dread  and  abhorrence  by  many  wise  men  — 
nay,  by  many  brave  ones;  insomuch, 
that  some  who  have  dared  to  look  into  the 
mouth  of  a  loaded  cannon,  have  not  dared 
to  look  into  a  mouth  where  this  weapon 
was  brandished;  and  rather  than  run  the 
hazard   of   its    execution,    have    contented 

78 


themselves  with  making  a  most  pitiful 
and  sneaking  figure  in  the  eyes  of  all  their 
acquaintance. 

To  confess  the  truth,  I  am  afraid  Mr. 
Jones  was  one  of  these;  for  though  he  was 
attacked  and  violently  belaboured  with  the 
aforesaid  weapon,  he  could  not  be  pro- 
voked to  make  any  resistance;  but  in  a 
most  cowardly  manner  applied,  with  many 
entreaties,  to  his  antagonist  to  desist  from 
pursuing  her  blows;  in  plain  English, 
he  only  begged  her  with  the  utmost  earnest- 
ness to  hear  him;  but  before  he  could 
obtain  his  request,  my  landlord  himself 
entered  into  the  fray,  and  embraced  that 
side  of  the  cause  which  seemed  to  stand 
very  little  in  need  of  assistance. 

There  are  a  sort  of  heroes  who  are 
supposed  to  be  determined  in  their  chusing 
or  avoiding  a  conflict  by  the  character 
and  behaviour  of  the  person  whom  they 
are  to  engage.  These  are  said  to  know 
their  men,  and  Jones,  I  believe,  knew  his 
woman;  for  though  he  had  been  so  sub- 
missive to  her,  he  was  no  sooner  attacked 
by  her  husband  than  he  demonstrated  an 
immediate  spirit  of  resentment,  and  en- 
joined   him    silence    under    a   very    severe 

79 


penalty;  no  less  than  that,  I  think,  of 
being  converted  into  fuel  for  his  own  fire. 

The  husband,  with  great  indignation, 
but  with  a  mixture  of  pity,  answered, 
"You  must  pray  first  to  be  made  able. 
I  believe  I  am  a  better  man  than  yourself; 
ay,  every  way,  that  I  am;"  and  presently 
proceeded  to  discharge  half-a-dozen  whores 
at  the  lady  above  stairs,  the  last  of  which 
had  scarce  issued  from  his  lips,  when  a 
swinging  blow  from  the  cudgel  that  Jones 
carried  in  his  hand  assaulted  him  over 
the  shoulders. 

It  is  a  question  whether  the  landlord 
or  the  landlady  was  the  most  expeditious 
in  returning  this  blow.  My  landlord, 
whose  hands  were  empty,  fell  to  with 
his  fist,  and  the  good  wife,  uplifting  her 
broom  and  aiming  at  the  head  of  Jones, 
had  probably  put  an  immediate  end  to 
the  fray,  and  to  Jones  likewise,  had  not 
the  descent  of  this  broom  been  prevented 
—  not  by  the  miraculous  intervention  of 
any  heathen  deity,  but  by  a  very  natural 
though  fortunate  accident,  viz.,  by  the 
arrival  of  Partridge,  who  entered  the  house 
at  that  instant  (for  fear  had  caused  him 
to  run  every  step  from  the  hill),  and  who, 

80 


seeing  the  danger  which  threatened  his 
master  or  companion  (which  you  chuse 
to  call  him),  prevented  so  sad  a  catas- 
trophe by  catching  hold  of  the  landlady's 
arm,  as  it  was  brandished  aloft  in  the  air. 

The  landlady  soon  perceived  the  impedi- 
ment which  prevented  her  blow;  and 
being  unable  to  rescue  her  arm  from  the 
hands  of  Partridge,  she  let  fall  the  broom; 
and  then  leaving  Jones  to  the  discipline 
of  her  husband,  she  fell  with  the  utmost 
fury  on  that  poor  fellow,  who  had  already 
given  some  intimation  of  himself,  by  cry- 
ing, "Zounds!  do  you  intend  to  kill  my 
friend?" 

Partridge,  though  not  much  addicted 
to  battle,  would  not  however  stand  still 
when  his  friend  was  attacked;  nor  was  he 
much  displeased  with  that  part  of  the 
combat  which  fell  to  his  share;  he  there- 
fore returned  my  landlady's  blows  as  soon 
as  he  received  them:  and  now  the  fight 
was  obstinately  maintained  on  all  parts, 
and  it  seemed  doubtful  to  which  side 
Fortune  would  incline,  when  the  naked 
lady,  who  had  listened  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  to  the  dialogue  which  preceded  the 
engagement,     descended     suddenly     from 

8i 


above,  and  without  weighing  the  unfair 
inequality  of  two  to  one,  fell  upon  the 
poor  woman  who  was  boxing  with  Part- 
ridge; nor  did  that  great  champion  desist, 
but  rather  redoubled  his  fury,  when  he 
found  fresh  succours  were  arrived  to  his 
assistance. 

Victory  must  now  have  fallen  to  the 
side  of  the  travellers  (for  the  bravest  troops 
must  yield  to  numbers)  had  not  Susan 
the  chambermaid  come  luckily  to  support 
her  mistress.  This  Susan  was  as  two- 
handed  a  wench  (according  to  the  phrase) 
as  any  in  the  country,  and  would,  I  believe, 
have  beat  the  famed  Thalestris  herself, 
or  any  of  her  subject  Amazons;  for  her 
form  was  robust  and  man-like,  and  every 
way  made  for  such  encounters.  As  her 
hands  and  arms  were  formed  to  give 
blows  with  great  mischief  to  an  enemy, 
so  was  her  face  as  well  contrived  to  re- 
ceive blows  without  any  great  injury  to 
herself,  her  nose  being  already  flat  to  her 
face;  her  lips  were  so  large,  that  no  swell- 
ing could  be  perceived  in  them,  and  more- 
over they  were  so  hard,  that  a  fist  could 
hardly  make  any  impression  on  them. 
Lastly,   her   cheek-bones   stood  out,   as   if 

82 


nature  had  intended  them  for  two  bastions 
to  defend  her  eyes  in  those  encounters 
for  which  she  seemed  so  well  calculated, 
and  to  which  she  was  most  wonderfully 
well  inclined. 

This  fair  creature  entering  the  field  of 
battle,  immediately  filed  to  that  wing 
where  her  mistress  maintained  so  unequal 
a  fight  with  one  of  either  sex.  Here  she 
presently  challenged  Partridge  to  single 
combat.  He  accepted  the  challenge,  and 
a  most  desperate  fight  began  between 
them. 

Now  the  dogs  of  war  being  let  loose, 
began  to  lick  their  bloody  lips;  now  Vic- 
tory, with  golden  wings,  hung  hovering 
in  the  air;  now  Fortune,  taking  her  scales 
from  her  shelf,  began  to  weigh  the  fates 
of  T©m  Jones,  his  female  companion,  and 
Partridge,  against  the  landlord,  his  wife, 
and  maid;  all  which  hung  in  exact  balance 
before  her;  when  a  good-natured  accident 
put  suddenly  an  end  to  the  bloody  fray, 
with  which  half  of  the  combatants  had 
already  sufficiently  feasted.  This  accident 
was  the  arrival  of  a  coach  and  four;  upon 
which  my  landlord  and  landlady  imme- 
diately desisted  from  fighting,  and  at  their 

83 


entreaty  obtained  the  same  favour  of  their 
antagonists:  but  Susan  was  not  so  kind 
to  Partridge;  for  that  Amazonian  fair 
having  overthrown  and  bestrid  her  enemy, 
was  now  cuffing  him  lustily  with  both 
her  hands,  without  any  regard  to  his 
request  of  a  cessation  of  arms,  or  to  those 
loud  exclamations  of  murder  which  he 
roared  forth. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  Jones  quitted 
the  landlord,  than  he  flew  to  the  rescue 
of  his  defeated  companion,  from  whom 
he  with  much  difficulty  drew  off  the  en- 
raged chambermaid:  but  Partridge  was 
not  immediately  sensible  of  his  deliverance, 
for  he  still  lay  flat  on  the  floor,  guarding 
his  face  with  his  hands;  nor  did  he  cease 
roaring  till  Jones  had  forced  him  to  look 
up,  and  to  perceive  that  the  battle  was 
at  an  end. 

[In  Book  V,  chapter  v,  of  Tom  Jones,  we 
find  a  bit  of  pertinent  comment  on  philos- 
ophers, so-called.  Mr.  Square,  a  self-styled 
philosopher  and  paragon  of  Virtue,  was 
one  day  discovered  hidden  in  a  closet  in 
the  apartments  of  a  woman  who  made 
no  very  loud  boast  of  moral  scruples :  —  ] 
I  84 


The  posture,  indeed,  in  which  he  stood, 
was  not  greatly  unhke  that  of  a  soldier 
who  is  tied  neck  and  heels;  or  rather 
resembhng  the  attitude  in  which  we  often 
see  fellows  in  the  public  streets  of  London, 
who  are  not  suffering  but  deserving  punish- 
ment by  so  standing.  He  had  a  nightcap 
belonging  to  Molly  on  his  head,  and  his 
two  large  eyes,  the  moment  the  rug  fell, 
stared  directly  at  Jones;  so  that  when 
the  idea  of  philosophy  was  added  to  the 
figure  now  discovered,  it  would  have  been 
very  difficult  for  any  spectator  to  have 
refrained  from  immoderate  laughter. 

I  question  not  but  the  surprize  of  the 
reader  wiH  be.  here  equal  to  that  of  Jones; 
as  the  suspicions  which  must  arise  from 
the  appearance  of  this  wise  and  grave 
man  in  such  a  place  may  seem  so  incon- 
sistent with  that  character  which  he  hath, 
doubtless,  maintained  hitherto,  in  the  opin- 
ion of  every  one. 

But  to  confess  the  truth,  this  incon- 
sistency is  rather  imaginary  than  real. 
Philosophers  are  composed  of  flesh  and 
blood  as  well  as  other  human  creatures; 
and  however  sublimated  and  refined  the 
theory  of  these  may  be,  a  little  practical 

85 


frailty  is  as  incident  to  them  as  to  other 
mortals.  It  is,  indeed,  in  theory  only, 
and  not  in  practice,  as  we  have  before 
hinted,  that  consists  the  difference:  for 
though  such  great  beings  think  much  better 
and  more  wisely,  they  always  act  exactly 
like  other  men.  They  know  very  well  how 
to  subdue  all  appetites  and  passions,  and  to 
despise  both  pain  and  pleasure;  and  this 
knowledge  affords  much  delightful  contem- 
plation, and  is  easily  acquired;  but  the  prac- 
tice would  be  vexatious  and  troublesome; 
and,  therefore,  the  same  wisdom  which 
teaches  them  to  know  this,  teaches  them 
to  avoid  carrying  it  into  execution. 

[A  little  farther  along  Fielding  again 
mentions  Mr.  Square  in  connection  with 
a  free-for-all  encounter  he  witnessed,  but 
in  which  he  took  no  part;  "for  the  phi- 
losophy of  Square,"  says  Fielding,  "ren- 
dered him  superior  to  all  emotions,  and 
he  very  calmly  smoaked  his  pipe,  as  was 
his  custom  in  all  broils,  unless  when  he 
apprehended  some  danger  of  having  it 
broke  in  his  mouth."] 


[It  is  perhaps  a  wise  saying,  that  "True 
literary  critics  are  known  by  their  talent 
\  86 


of  swarming  about  the  noblest  writers. 
In  Tom  Jones,  Fielding  gives  a  caustic 
commentary  on  Literary  Critics,  who, 
strangely  enough,  have  been  proverbially 
wrong  in  their  estimates  of  genius,  —  so 
much  so  that  it  has  been  regarded  by  some 
as  a  bad  omen  to  have  their  writings 
commended  by  these  harbingers  of  an  au- 
thor's fame.  It  is  observable,  also,  that  the 
so-called  authoritative  guidebooks  to  suc- 
cess in  business  and  literary  pursuits  are 
seldom,  if  indeed  ever,  written  by  those 
who  have  successfully  applied  the  methods 
expounded: — ] 

Now,  in  reality,  the  world  have  paid  too 
great  a  compliment  to  critics,  and  have 
imagined  them  men  of  much  greater  pro- 
fundity than  they  really  are.  From  this 
complacence,  the  critics  have  been  embold- 
ened to  assume  a  dictatorial  power,  and 
have  so  far  succeeded,  that  they  are  now 
become  the  masters,  and  have  the  assur- 
ance to  give  laws  to  those  authors  from 
whose  predecessors  they  originally  received 
them. 

The  critic,  rightly  considered,  is  no  more 
than  the  clerk,  whose  office  it  is  to  trans- 
cribe the  rules  and  laws  laid  down  by  those 

87 


great  judges  whose  vast  strength  of  genius 
hath  placed  them  in  the  light  of  legislators, 
in  the  several  sciences  over  which  they 
presided.  This  office  was  all  which  the 
critics  of  old  aspired  to;  nor  did  they  ever 
dare  to  advance  a  sentence,  without  sup- 
porting it  by  the  authority  of  the  judge 
from  whence  it  was  borrowed. 

But  in  process  of  time,  and  in  ages  of 
ignorance,  the  clerk  began  to  invade  the 
power  and  assume  the  dignity  of  his 
master.  The  laws  of  writing  were  no 
longer  founded  on  the  practice  of  the 
author,  but  on  the  dictates  of  the  critic. 
The  clerk  became  the  legislator,  and  those 
very  peremptorily  gave  laws,  whose  business 
it  was,  at  first,  only  to  transcribe  them. 

Hence  arose  an  obvious,  and  perhaps 
an  unavoidable  error;  for  these  critics 
being  men  of  shallow  capacities,  very  easily 
mistook  mere  form  for  substance.  They 
acted  as  a  judge  would,  who  should  adhere 
to  the  lifeless  letter  of  law,  and  reject  the 
spirit.  Little  circumstances,  which  were 
perhaps  accidental  in  a  great  author,  were 
by  these  critics  considered  to  constitute 
his  chief  merit,  and  transmitted  as  essen- 
tials to  be  observed  by  all  his  successors. 

88 


To  these  encroachments,  time  and  igno- 
rance, the  two  great  supporters  of  impos- 
ture, gave  authority;  and  thus  many  rules 
for  good  writing  have  been  established, 
which  have  not  the  least  foundation  in 
truth  or  nature;  and  which  commonly 
serve  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  curb 
and  restrain  genius,  in  the  same  manner 
as  it  would  have  restrained  the  dancing- 
master,  had  the  many  excellent  treatises 
on  that  art  laid  it  down  as  an  essential 
rule  that  every  man  must  dance  in 
chains.  .  .  . 

This  word  critic  is  of  Greek  derivation, 
and  signifies  judgment.  Hence  I  presume 
some  persons  who  have  not  understood 
the  original,  and  have  seen  the  English 
translation  of  the  primitive,  have  con- 
cluded that  it  meant  judgment  in  the 
legal  sense,  in  which  it  is  frequently  used 
as  equivalent  to  condemnation. 

I  am  the  rather  inclined  to  be  of  that 
opinion,  as  the  greatest  number  of  critics 
hath  of  late  years  been  found  amongst 
the  lawyers.  Many  of  these  gentlemen, 
from  despair,  perhaps,  of  ever  rising  to  the 
bench  in  Westminster-hall,  have  placed 
themselves   on   the   benches   at   the   play- 

89 


house,  where  they  have  exerted  their  judi- 
cial capacity,  and  have  given  judgment 
I.e.,  condemned  without  mercy. 

The  gentlemen  would,  perhaps,  be  well 
enough  pleased,  if  we  were  to  leave  them 
thus  compared  to  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant and  honourable  offices  in  the  common- 
wealth, and,  if  we  intended  to  apply  to 
their  favour,  we  would  do  so;  but,  as  we 
design  to  deal  very  sincerely  and  plainly 
too  with  them,  we  must  remind  them  of 
another  officer  of  justice  of  a  much  lower 
rank;  to  whom,  as  they  not  only  pro- 
nounce, but  execute,  their  own  judgment, 
they  bear  likewise  some  remote  resem- 
blance. 

But  in  reahty  there  is  another  light, 
in  which  these  modern  critics  may,  with 
great  justice  and  propriety,  be  seen;  and 
this  is  that  of  a  common  slanderer.  If  a 
person  who  prys  into  the  characters  of 
others,  with  no  other  design  but  to  dis- 
cover their  faults,  and  to  pubfish  them  to 
the  world,  deserves  the  title  of  a  slanderer 
of  the  reputations  of  men,  why  should  not 
a  critic,  who  reads  with  the  same  malevo- 
lent view,  be  as  properly  stiled  the  slan- 
derer of  the  reputation  of  books? 

90 


Vice  hath  not,  I  believe,  a  more  abject 
slave;  society  produces  not  a  more  odious 
vermin;  nor  can  the  devil  receive  a  guest 
more  worthy  of  him,  nor  possibly  more 
welcome  to  him,  than  a  slanderer.  The 
world,  I  am  afraid,  regards  not  this  mon- 
ster with  half  the  abhorrence  which  he 
deserves;  and  I  am  more  afraid  to  assign 
the  reason  of  this  criminal  lenity  shown 
towards  him;  yet  it  is  certain  that  the 
thief  looks  innocent  in  the  comparison; 
nay,  the  murderer  himself  can  seldom 
stand  in  competition  with  his  guilt:  for 
slander  is  a  more  cruel  weapon  than  a 
sword,  as  the  wounds  which  the  former 
gives  are  always  incurable.  One  method, 
indeed,  there  is  of  killing,  and  that  the 
basest  and  most  execrable  of  all,  which 
bears  an  exact  analogy  to  the  vice  here 
disclaimed  against,  and  that  is  poison: 
a  means  of  revenge  so  base,  and  yet  so 
horrible,  that  it  was  once  wisely  dis- 
tinguished by  our  laws  from  all  other 
murders,  in  the  peculiar  severity  of  the 
punishment. 

Besides  the  dreadful  mischiefs  done  by 
slander,  and  the  baseness  of  the  means 
by    which    they    are    effected,    there    are 

91 


other  circumstances  that  highly  aggravate 
its  atrocious  quality;  for  it  often  proceeds 
from  no  provocation,  and  seldom  promises 
itself  any  reward,  unless  some  black  and 
infernal  mind  may  propose  a  reward  in 
the  thoughts  of  having  procured  the  ruin 
and  misery  of  another. 

Shakespear  hath  nobly  touched  this  vice, 
when  he  says  — 

Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash;  't  is  something, 
nothing; 

'T  was  mine,  't  is  his,  and  hath  been  slave  to  thou- 
sands: 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

BUT  MAKES  ME  POOR  INDEED. 

With  all  this  my  good  reader  will  doubt- 
less agree;  but  much  of  it  will  probably 
seem  too  severe,  when  applied  to  the 
slanderer  of  books.  But  let  it  here  be 
considered  that  both  proceed  from  the 
same  wicked  disposition  of  mind,  and  are 
alike  void  of  the  excuse  of  temptation. 
Nor  shall  we  conclude  the  injury  done  this 
way  to  be  very  slight,  when  we  consider 
a  book  as  the  author's  offspring,  and  in- 
deed as  the  child  of  his  brain. 

The  reader  who  hath  suffered  his  Muse 

92 


to  continue  hitherto  in  a  virgin  state  can 
have  but  a  very  inadequate  idea  of  this 
kind  of  paternal  fondness.  To  such  we 
may  parody  the  tender  exclamation  of 
Macduff,  "Alas!  Thou  hast  written  no 
book."  But  the  author  whose  Muse  hath 
brought  forth  will  feel  the  pathetic  strain, 
perhaps  will  accompany  me  with  tears 
(especially  if  his  darling  be  already  no 
more),  while  I  mention  the  uneasiness  with 
which  the  big  Muse  bears  about  her  bur- 
den, the  painful  labour  with  which  she 
produces  it,  and,  lastly,  the  care,  the 
fondness,  with  which  the  tender  father 
nourishes  his  favourite,  till  it  be  brought 
to  maturity,  and  produced  into  the  world. 
Nor  is  there  any  paternal  fondness  which 
seems  less  to  savour  of  absolute  instinct, 
and  which  may  so  well  be  reconciled  to 
worldly  wisdom,  as  this.  These  children 
may  most  truly  be  called  the  riches  of 
their  father;  and  many  of  them  have  with 
true  filial  piety  fed  their  parent  in  his  old 
age:  so  that  not  only  the  affection,  but 
the  interest,  of  the  author  may  be  highly 
injured  by  these  slanderers,  whose  poison- 
ous breath  brings  his  book  to  an  untimely 
end. 

93 


Lastly,  the  slander  of  a  book  is,  in 
truth,  the  slander  of  the  author:  for,  as 
no  one  can  call  another  bastard,  without 
calling  the  mother  a  whore,  so  neither  can 
any  one  give  the  names  of  sad  stuff,  horrid 
nonsense,  &c.,  to  a  book,  without  calling 
the  author  a  blockhead;  which,  though 
in  a  moral  sense  it  is  a  preferable  appel- 
lation to  that  of  villain,  is  perhaps  rather 
more  injurious  to  his  worldly  interest. 

Now,  however  ludicrous  all  this  may 
appear  to  some,  others,  I  doubt  not,  will 
feel  and  acknowledge  the  truth  of  it; 
nay,  may,  perhaps,  think  I  have  not 
treated  the  subject  with  decent  solemnity; 
but  surely  a  man  may  speak  truth  with 
a  smihng  countenance.  In  reality,  to  de- 
preciate a  book  mahciously,  or  even  wan- 
tonly, is  at  least  a  very  ill-natured  office; 
and  a  morose  snarling  critic  may,  I  believe, 
be  suspected  to  be  a  bad  man. 

I  will  therefore  endeavour,  in  the  re- 
maining part  of  this  chapter,  to  explain 
the  marks  of  this  character,  and  to  show 
what  criticism  I  here  intend  to  obviate: 
for  I  can  never  be  understood,  unless  by 
the  very  persons  here  meant,  to  insinuate 
that  there  are  no  proper  judges  of  writing, 

94 


or  to  endeavour  to  exclude  from  the  com- 
monwealth of  literature  any  of  those  noble 
critics  to  whose  labours  the  learned  world 
are  so  greatly  indebted.  Such  were  Aris- 
totle, Horace,  and  Longinus,  among  the 
antients,  Dacier  and  Bossu  among  the 
French,  and  some  perhaps  ^among  us;  who 
have  certainly  been  duly  authorised  to 
execute  at  least  a  judicial  authority  in 
Joro  literario. 

But  without  ascertaining  all  the  proper 
quahfications  of  a  critic,  which  I  have 
touched  on  elsewhere,  I  think  I  may 
very  boldly  object  to  the  censures  of  any 
one  passed  upon  works  which  he  hath  not 
himself  read.  Such  censurers  as  these, 
whether  they  speak  from  their  own  guess 
or  suspicion,  or  from  the  report  and  opinion 
of  others,  may  properly  be  said  to  slander 
the  reputation  of  the  book  they  condemn. 

Such  may  likewise  be  suspected  of  de- 
serving this  character,  who,  without  assign- 
ing any  particular  faults,  condemn  the 
whole  in  general  defamatory  terms;  such 
as  vile,  dull,  d — d  stuff,  &c.,  and  particu- 
larly by  the  use  of  the  monosyllable  low; 
a  word  which  becomes  the  mouth  of  no 
critic  who  is  not  Right  Honourable. 

95 


Again,  though  there  may  be  some  faults 
justly  assigned  in  the  work,  yet,  if  those 
are  not  in  the  most  essential  parts,  or  if 
they  are  compensated  by  greater  beauties, 
it  will  savour  rather  of  the  malice  of  a 
slanderer  than  of  the  judgment  of  a  true 
critic  to  pass  a  severe  sentence  upon  the 
whole,  merely  on  account  of  some  vicious 
part.  This  is  directly  contrary  to  the 
sentiments  of  Horace: 

Verum  ubi  plura  nitent  in  carmine,  non  ego  paucis 
Offendor  maculis,  quas  aut  incuria  Judit, 
Aut  bumana  parum  cavit  natura 

But  where  the  beauties,  more  in  number,  shine, 
I  am  not  angry,  when  a  casual  line 
(That  with  some  trivial  faults  unequal  flows) 
A  careless  hand  or  human  frailty  shows. 

For,  as  Martial  says,  Aliter  non  fity 
Avite,  liber.  No  book  can  be  otherwise 
composed.  All  beauty  of  character,  as 
well  as  of  countenance,  and  indeed  of 
everything  human,  is  to  be  tried  in  this 
manner.  Cruel  indeed  would  it  be  if  such  a 
work  as  this  history,  which  hath  employed 
some  thousands  of  hours  in  the  composing, 
should  be  liable  to  be  condemned,  because 
some  particular  chapter,  or  perhaps  chap- 
ters, may  be  obnoxious  to  very  just  and 

96 


sensible  objections.  And  yet  nothing  is 
more  common  than  the  most  rigorous 
sentence  upon  books  supported  by  such 
objections,  which,  if  they  were  rightly 
taken  (and  that  they  are  not  always), 
do  by  no  means  go  to  the  merit  of  the 
whole.  In  the  theatre  especially,  a  single 
expression  which  doth  not  coincide  with  the 
taste  of  the  audience,  or  with  any  individual 
critic  of  that  audience,  is  sure  to  be  hissed; 
and  one  scene  which  should  be  disapproved 
would  hazard  the  whole  piece.  To  write 
within  such  severe  rules  as  these  is  as 
impossible  as  to  live  up  to  some  splenetic 
opinions:  and  if  we  judge  according  to 
the  sentiments  of  some  critics,  and  of  some 
Christians,  no  author  will  be  saved  in  this 
world,  and  no  man  in  the  next. 


[The  following  passage  from  Amelia  illus- 
trates a  practice  which,  although  more 
or  less  obsolete,  is  not  entirely  forgotten 
in  the  present  age.  Booth's  wife,  Amelia, 
had  by  means  of  disposing  of  all  her  little 
trinkets,  and  all  her  clothing,  excepting 
only  that  which  she  wore,  raised  a  sum  of 
money  to  discharge  a  debt  and  thus  prevent 

97 


her  husband  from  going  to  gaol.  While 
on  his  way  to  pay  off  the  creditor,  Booth 
met  a  person  who  told  him  that  by  paying 
a  sum  (all  he  had),  to  a  certain  person  of 
"powerful  interest"  he  could  procure  a 
highly  remunerative  place  in  the  war- 
office.  In  the  last  depths  of  despair,  Booth 
yielded  to  the  importunity,  and  Fielding 
says,  **The  great  man  received  the  money, 
not  as  a  gudgeon  doth  a  bait,  but  as  a  pike 
receives  a  poor  gudgeon  into  his  maw.'* 
The  result  was  that  Booth  went  to  gaol, 
the  great  man  pocketed  the  money  and 
forgot  all  about  the  obligation  he  incurred 
in  receiving  it :  — ] 

This  gentleman  had  a  place  in  the  War- 
office,  and  pretended  to  be  a  man  of  great 
interest  and  consequence;  by  which  means 
he  did  not  only  receive  great  respect  and 
court  from  the  inferiour  officers,  but  actu- 
ally bubbled  several  of  their  money,  by 
undertaking  to  do  them  services  which, 
in  reality,  were  not  within  his  power.  In 
truth,  I  have  known  few  great  men  who 
have  not  been  beset  with  one  or  more 
such  fellows  as  these,  through  whom  the 
inferior  part  of  mankind  are  obliged  to 
make  their  court  to  the  great  men  them- 


selves;  by  which  means,  I  believe,  princi- 
pally, persons  of  real  merit  have  often 
been  deterred  from  the  attempt;  for  these 
subaltern  coxcombs  ever  assume  an  equal 
state  with  their  masters,  and  look  for  an 
equal  degree  of  respect  to  be  paid  to  them; 
to  which  men  of  spirit,  who  are  in  every 
light  their  betters,  are  not  easily  brought 
to  submit.  These  fellows,  indeed,  them- 
selves have  a  jealous  eye  towards  all  great 
abilities,  and  are  sure,  to  the  utmost  of 
their  power,  to  keep  all  who  are  so  endowed 
from  the  presence  of  their  masters.  They 
use  their  masters  as  bad  ministers  have 
sometimes  used  a  prince  —  they  keep  all 
men  of  merit  from  his  ears,  and  daily 
sacrifice  his  true  honour  and  interest  to 
their  own  profit  and  their  own  vanity.  .  .  . 
Here  I  shall  stop  one  moment,  and  so, 
perhaps,  will  my  good-natured  reader;  for 
surely  it  must  be  a  hard  heart  which  is 
not  affected  with  reflecting  on  the  manner 
in  which  this  poor  little  sum  was  raised, 
and  on  the  manner  in  which  it  was  be- 
stowed. A  worthy  family,  the  wife  and 
children  of  a  man  who  had  lost  his  blood 
abroad  in  the  service  of  his  country,  part- 
ing with  their   little   all,   and   exposed   to 

99 


cold  and  hunger,  to  pamper  such  a  fellow 
as  this! 

And  if  any  such  reader  as  I  mention 
should  happen  to  be  in  reality  a  great 
man,  and  in  power,  perhaps  the  horrour  of 
this  picture  may  induce  him  to  put  a  final 
end  to  this  abominable  practice  of  touch- 
ing, as  it  is  called;  by  which,  indeed,  a  set 
of  leeches  are  permitted  to  suck  the  blood 
of  the  brave  and  the  indigent,  of  the  widow 
and  the  orphan.  .  .  . 

Thus  did  this  poor  man  support  his 
hopes  by  a  dependence  on  that  ticket  which 
he  had  so  dearly  purchased  of  one  who 
pretended  to  manage  the  wheels  in  the 
great  state  lottery  of  preferment.  A  lot- 
tery, indeed,  which  hath  this  to  recommend 
it  —  that  many  poor  wretches  feed  their 
imaginations  with  the  prospect  of  a  prize 
during  their  whole  lives,  and  never  discover 
they  have  drawn  a  blank. 


[In  one  of  the  last  chapters  of  Amelia, 
Fielding  pays  the  following  tribute  to  a 
shyster  lawyer  with  whom  it  may  be  reas- 
onably surmised  that  the  author  himself 
had  come  in  contact  when  he  was  an 
involuntary  visitant  of  the  London  gaols. 

100 


This  attorney  had  formerly  practiced  in 
the  town  where  Amelia  had  lived,  and  it 
was  due  to  his  chicanery  that  she  was 
for  many  years  (viz.,  those  years  covered 
by  the  story)  kept  out  of  her  inheritance, 
for  which  misdeed  he  was  afterwards  appre- 
hended and  hanged.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  the  conditions  on  which  his  "very 
good-natured'*  brother  attorney  at  home 
consented  to  lodge  no  complaint  against 
him:  —  ]] 

The  case  then  was  thus:  this  Murphy 
had  been  clerk  to  an  attorney  in  the  very 
same  town  in  which  the  doctor  [Harrison] 
lived,  and,  when  he  was  out  of  his  time, 
had  set  up  with  a  character  fair  enough, 
and  had  married  a  maid-servant  of  Mrs. 
Harris,  by  which  means  he  had  all  the 
business  to  which  that  lady  and  her  friends, 
in  which  number  was  the  doctor,  could 
recommend  him. 

Murphy  went  on  with  his  business, 
and  thrived  very  well,  till  he  happened  to 
make  an  unfortunate  slip,  in  which  he  was 
detected  by  a  brother  of  the  same  calling. 
But,  though  we  call  this  by  the  gentle 
name  of  a  slip,  in  respect  to  its  being  so 
extremely    common,    it   was    a   matter   in 

lOI 


which  the  law,  if  it  had  ever  come  to  its 
ears,  would  have  passed  a  very  severe 
censure,  being,  indeed,  no  less  than  per- 
jury and  subornation  of  perjury. 

This  brother  attorney,  being  a  very 
good-natured  man,  and  unwilling  to  be- 
spatter his  own  profession,  and  considering, 
perhaps,  that  the  consequence  did  in  no 
wise  affect  the  public,  who  had  no  manner 
of  interest  in  the  alternative  whether  A., 
in  whom  the  right  was,  or  B.,  to  whom  Mr. 
Murphy,  by  the  means  aforesaid,  had 
transferred  it,  succeeded  in  an  action; 
we  mention  this  particular,  because,  as 
this  brother  attorney  was  a  very  violent 
party  man,  and  a  professed  stickler  for 
the  public,  to  suffer  any  injury  to  have 
been  done  to  that,  would  have  been  highly 
inconsistent  with  his  principles. 

This  gentleman,  therefore,  came  to  Mr. 
Murphy,  and,  after  shewing  him  that 
he  had  it  in  his  power  to  convict  him  of 
the  aforesaid  crime,  very  generously  told 
him  that  he  had  not  the  least  delight  in 
bringing  any  man  to  destruction,  nor  the 
least  animosity  against  him.  All  that  he 
insisted  upon  was,  that  he  would  not  live 
in  the  same  town  or  county  with  one  who 

102 


had  been  guilty  of  such  an  action.  He 
then  told  Mr.  Murphy  that  he  would  keep 
the  secret  on  two  conditions;  the  one  was, 
that  he  immediately  quitted  that  country; 
the  other  was,  that  he  should  convince 
him  he  deserved  this  kindness  by  his 
gratitude,  and  that  Murphy  should  trans- 
fer to  the  other  all  the  business  which  he 
then  had  in  those  parts,  and  to  which 
he  could  possibly  recommend  him. 

It  is  the  observation  of  a  very  wise  man, 
that  it  is  a  very  common  exercise  of  wisdom 
in  this  world,  of  two  evils  to  chuse  the 
least.  The  reader,  therefore,  cannot  doubt 
but  that  Mr.  Murphy  complied  with  the 
alternative  proposed  by  his  kind  brother, 
and  accepted  the  terms  on  which  secrecy 
was  to  be  obtained. 


[Fielding  took  occasion  to  pay  off  some 
of  his  old  scores   with  bailiffs,   whom   he 
depicts   as  a  heartless,   acquisitive  sort  of 
human    beings  —  upon    whose    hospitality     "^^A 
he  is  said  to  have  been  frequently  thrust.  \ 

The  following  satirical  remarks  were  pre- 
ceded by  a  dialogue  between  the  bailiff 
(Mr.  Bondum)  and  poor  Booth,  Amelia's 

husband :  —  ] 

103 


Here  the  reader  may  be  apt  to  conclude 
that  the  bailiff,  instead  of  being  a  friend, 
was  really  an  enemy  to  poor  Booth;  but, 
in  fact,  he  was  not  so.  His  desire  was  no 
more  than  to  accumulate  bail-bonds;  for 
the  baihfT  was  reckoned  an  honest  and 
good  sort  of  man  in  his  way,  and  had  no 
more  malice  against  the  bodies  in  his 
custody  than  a  butcher  hath  to  those  in 
his:  and  as  the  latter,  when  he  takes  his 
knife  in  hand,  hath  no  idea  but  of  the 
joints  into  which  he  is  to  cut  the  carcase; 
so  the  former,  when  he  handles  his  writ, 
hath  no  other  design  but  to  cut  out  the 
body  into  as  many  bail-bonds  as  possible. 
As  to  the  life  of  the  animal,  or  the  liberty 
of  the  man,  they  are  thoughts  which  never 
obtrude  themselves  on  either. 

[a  brief  speech  of  the  villainous  JON- 
ATHAN WILD,  THE  MOCK-HERO  OF  FIELDING'S 
GREAT  SATIRICAL  NOVEL  OF  THAT  NAME: ] 

He  was  scarce  settled  at  school  before 
he  gave  marks  of  his  lofty  and  aspiring 
temper;  and  was  regarded  by  all  his 
schoolfellows  with  that  deference  which  men 
generally  pay  to  those  superior  geniuses 
who  will  exact  it  of  them.     If  an  orchard 


G-' 


was  to  be  robbed  Wild  was  consulted, 
and,  though  he  was  himself  seldom  con- 
cerned in  the  execution  of  the  design, 
yet  was  he  always  concerter  of  it,  and 
treasurer  of  the  booty,  some  little  part  of 
which  he  would  now  and  then,  with  wonder- 
ful generosity,  bestow  on  those  who  took 
it.  He  was  generally  very  secret  on  these 
occasions;  but  if  any  offered  to  plunder 
of  his  own  head,  without  acquainting  mas- 
ter Wild,  and  making  a  deposit  of  the 
booty,  he  was  sure  to  have  an  information 
against  him  lodged  with  the  schoolmaster, 
and  to  be  severely  punished  for  his  pains. 

[A  satirical  reference  to  Friendship,  as 
applied  to  the  credulous  Mr.  HeartfVee  in    ,/.,^./^/, 
Jonathan  Wild  —  containing  a  valuable  les-    I  t' 

son  on  Credulity:  —  ] 

I  am  sensible  that  the  reader,  if  he  hath 
but  the  least  notion  of  greatness,  must  have 
such  a  contempt  for  the  extreme  folly  of 
this  fellow  [Heartfree],  that  he  will  be  very 
little  concerned  at  any  misfortunes  which 
may  befal  him  in  the  sequel;  for  to  have 
no  suspicion  that  an  old  schoolfellow  [the 
villain,  Jonathan  Wild]  with  whom  he  had, 
in  his  tenderest  years,  contracted  a  friend- 
ship, and  who,  on  the  accidental  renewing 

105 


of  their  acquaintance,  had  professed  the 
most  passionate  regard  for  him,  should  be 
very  ready  to  impose  on  him;  in  short, 
to  conceive  that  a  friend  should,  of  his 
own  accord,  without  any  view  to  his  own 
interest,  endeavour  to  do  him  a  service, 
must  argue  such  weakness  of  mind,  such 
ignorance  of  the  world,  and  such  an  artless, 
simple,  undesigning  heart,  as  must  render 
the  person  possessed  of  it  the  lowest  creature 
and  the  properest  object  of  contempt  im- 
aginable, in  the  eyes  of  every  man  of 
understanding  and  discernment. 

[Later  when  this  poor  honest,  confiding 
victim  (who  was  in  gaol  for  debts  con- 
tracted through  the  machinations  of  Wild) 
discovered  that  Wild  had  made  off  with 
his  faithful  wife,  all  of  his  furniture,  and 
all  that  remained  of  his  other  worldly 
effects,  Fielding  thus  pictures  his  astonish- 
ment :  —  ] 

It  is  the  observation  of  many  wise  men, 
who  have  studied  the  anatomy  of  the 
human  soul  with  more  attention  than 
our  young  physicians  generally  bestow  on 
that  of  the  body,  that  great  and  violent 
surprize  hath  a  different  effect  from  that 
which  is  wrought  in  a  good  housewife  by 

1 06 


perceiving  any  disorders  in  her  kitchen; 
who,  on  such  occasions,  commonly  spreads 
the  disorder,  not  only  over  her  whole 
family,  but  over  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
—  Now,  these  great  calamities,  especially 
when  sudden,  tend  to  stifle  and  deaden 
all  the  faculties,  instead  of  rousing  them; 
and  accordingly  Herodotus  tells  us  a  story 
of  Croesus  king  of  Lydia,  who,  on  beholding 
his  servants  and  courtiers  led  captive, 
wept  bitterly;  but,  when  he  saw  his  wife 
and  children  in  that  condition,  stood  stupid 
and  motionless;  so  stood  poor  Heartfree 
on  this  relation  of  his  apprentice,  nothing 
moving  but  his  colour,  which  entirely  for- 
sook his  countenance. 

[Here  it  seems  fitting  to  incorporate  a 
bit  of  true  philosophy  which,  although  used 
by  Fielding  in  another  part  of  his  work,  is 
equally  applicable  to  this  circumstance:] 

Though  the  observation  —  how  apt  men 
are  to  hate  those  they  injure,  or  how  un- 
forgiving they  are  of  the  injuries  they  do 
themselves,  be  common  enough,  yet  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  ever  seen  the  reason 
of  this  strange  phenomenon  as  at  first  it 
appears.  Know  therefore,  reader,  that  with 
much   and   severe    scrutiny   we   have   dis- 

107 


covered  this  hatred  to  be  founded  on  the 
passion  of  fear,  and  to  arise  from  an  appre- 
hension that  the  person  whom  we  have  our- 
selves greatly  injured  will  use  all  possible 
endeavours  to  revenge  and  retaliate  the 
injuries  we  have  done  him.  An  opinion  so 
firmly  established  in  bad  and  great  minds 
(and  those  who  confer  injuries  on  others 
have  seldom  very  good  or  mean  ones) 
that  no  benevolence,  nor  even  beneficence, 
on  the  injured  side,  can  eradicate  it.  On 
the  contrary,  they  refer  all  these  acts  of 
kindness  to  imposture  and  design  of  lulling 
their  suspicion,  till  an  opportunity  offers 
of  striking  a  surer  and  severer  blow;  and 
thus,  while  the  good  man  who  hath  re- 
ceived it  hath  truly  forgotten  the  injury, 
the  evil  mind  which  did  it  hath  it  in  lively 
and  fresh  remembrance.  .  .  .  never  trust 

THE  MAN  WHO  HATH  REASON  TO  SUSPECT 
THAT  YOU  KNOW  HE  HATH  INJURED  YOU. 

[Such  was  the  case  with  Wild  who, 
fearing  his  victim's  release,  trumped  up 
a  charge  of  embezzlement  against  him, 
which  he  and  one  of  his  gang  swore  to. 
Although  Heartfree  and  his  family  had 
always  borne  the  most  exemplary  char- 
acter,   he    was    convicted    and    sentenced 

1 08 


to  be  hanged,  —  entirely  upon  false  testi- 
mony. As  an  instance  of  the  proneness 
of  human  beings  —  after  the  manner  of 
wolves  and  wild  hogs  —  to  set  upon  those 
of  their  own  species  who  are  down,  Field- 
ing adds :  —  ] 

We  cannot  help  mentioning  a  circum- 
stance here,  though  we  doubt  it  will  appear 
very  unnatural  and  incredible  to  our  reader; 
which  is,  that,  notwithstanding  the  former 
character  and  behaviour  of  Heartfree,  this 
story  of  his  embezzling  was  so  far  from 
surprizing  his  neighbours,  that  many  of 
them  declared  they  expected  no  better 
from  him.  Some  were  assured  he  could 
pay  forty  shillings  in  the  pound  if  he 
would.  Others  had  overheard  hints  for- 
merly pass  between  him  and  Mrs.  Heart- 
free  which  had  given  them  suspicions. 
And  what  is  most  astonishing  of  all  is, 
that  many  of  those  who  had  before  censured 
him  for  an  extravagant  heedless  fool,  now 
no  less  confidently  abused  him  for  a  cun- 
ning, tricking,  avaricious  knave. 

[ambition  and  avarice] 

There  is  no  one  circumstance  in  which 
the  distempers  of  the  mind  bear  a  more 

109 


exact  analogy  to  those  which  are  called 
bodily,  than  that  aptness  which  both  have 
to  a  relapse.  This  is  plain  in  the  violent 
diseases  of  ambition  and  avarice.  I  have 
known  ambition,  when  cured  at  court  by 
frequent  disappointments  (which  are  the 
only  physic  for  it),  to  break  out  again  in 
a  contest  for  foreman  of  the  grand  jury 
at  an  assizes;  and  have  heard  of  a  man 
who  had  so  far  conquered  avarice,  as  to 
give  away  many  a  sixpence,  that  comforted 
himself,  at  last,  on  his  deathbed,  by  making 
a  crafty  and  advantageous  bargain  con- 
cerning his  ensuing  funeral,  with  an  under- 
taker who  had  married  his  only  child. 

[a  short  essay  on  vanity] 

O  Vanity !  how  little  is  thy  force  acknowl- 
edged, or  thy  operations  discerned!  How 
wantonly  dost  thou  deceive  mankind  under 
different  disguises!  Sometimes  thou  dost 
wear  the  face  of  pity,  sometimes  of  gener- 
osity: nay,  thou  hast  the  assurance  even 
to  put  on  those  glorious  ornaments  which 
belong  only  to  heroic  virtue.  Thou  odious, 
deformed  monster!  whom  priests  have 
railed  at,  philosophers  despised,  and  poets 
ridiculed;    is  there  a  wretch  so  abandoned 

no 


as  to  own  thee  for  an  acquaintance  in 
publick?  —  yet,  how  few  will  refuse  to 
enjoy  thee  in  private?  nay,  thou  art  the 
pursuit  of  most  men  through  their  lives. 
The  greatest  villainies  are  daily  practised 
to  please  thee;  nor  is  the  meanest  thief 
below,  or  the  greatest  hero  above,  thy 
notice.  Thy  embraces  are  often  the  sole 
aim  and  sole  reward  of  the  private  robbery 
and  the  plundered  province.  It  is  to 
pamper  up  thee,  thou  harlot,  that  we 
attempt  to  withdraw  from  others  what  we 
do  not  want,  or  to  withhold  from  them 
what  they  do.  All  our  passions  are  thy 
slaves.  Avarice  itself  is  often  no  more 
than  thy  handmaid,  and  even  Lust  thy 
pimp.  The  bully  Fear,  like  a  coward, 
flies  before  thee,  and  Joy  and  Grief  hide 
their  heads  in  thy  presence. 

I  know  thou  wilt  think  that  whilst  I 
abuse  thee  I  court  thee,  and  that  thy  love 
hath  inspired  me  to  write  this  sarcastical 
panegyric  on  thee;  but  thou  art  deceived: 
I  value  thee  not  of  a  farthing;  nor  will 
it  give  me  any  pain  if  thou  shouldst  pre- 
vail on  the  reader  to  censure  this  digression 
as  arrant  nonsense;  for  know,  to  thy  con- 
fusion, that  I  have   introduced   thee   here 

III 


for    no    other    purpose    than    to    lengthen 
out  a  short  chapter. 


The  great  are  deceived  if  they  imagine 
they  have  appropriated  ambition  and  van- 
ity to  themselves.  These  noble  qualities 
flourish  as  notably  in  a  country  church 
and  churchyard  as  in  the  drawing-room,  or 
in  the  closet.  Schemes  have  indeed  been 
laid  in  the  vestry  which  would  hardly  dis- 
grace the  conclave.  Here  is  a  ministry,  and 
here  is  an  opposition.  Here  are  plots  and 
circumventions,  parties  and  factions,  equal 
to  those  which  are  to  be  found  in  courts. 

Nor  are  the  women  here  less  practised 
in  the  highest  feminine  arts  than  their 
fair  superiors  in  quality  and  fortune.  Here 
are  prudes  and  coquettes.  Here  are  dress- 
ing and  ogling,  falsehood,  envy,  malice, 
scandal;  in  short,  everything  which  is 
common  to  the  most  splendid  assembly, 
or  politest  circle.  Let  those  of  high  life, 
therefore,  no  longer  despise  the  ignorance 
of  their  inferiors;  nor  the  vulgar  any 
longer  rail  at  the  vices  of  their  betters. 


Love,  friendship,  esteem,  and  such  like, 
have    very    powerful    operations    in    the 

112 


human  mind;  interest,  however,  is  an 
ingredient  seldom  omitted  by  wise  men, 
when  they  would  work  others  to  their 
own  purposes.  This  is  indeed  a  most 
excellent  medicine,  and,  like  Ward's  pill, 
flies  at  once  to  the  particular  part  of  the 
body  on  which  you  desire  to  operate, 
whether  it  be  the  tongue,  the  hand,  or  any 
other  member,  where  it  scarce  ever  fails 
of  immediately  producing  the  desired  effect. 


[friendship,   religion  and  virtue   used 
as  cloaks  by  hypocrites] 

A  treacherous  friend  is  the  most  dan- 
gerous enemy;  and  I  will  say  boldly, 
that  both  religion  and  virtue  have  received 
more  real  discredit  from  hypocrites  than 
the  wittiest  profligates  or  infidels  could 
ever  cast  upon  them:  nay,  farther,  as 
these  two,  in  their  purity,  are  rightly 
called  the  bands  of  civil  society,  and  are 
indeed  the  greatest  of  blessings;  so  when 
poisoned  and  corrupted  with  fraud,  pre- 
tence, and  affectation,  they  have  become 
the  worst  of  civil  curses,  and  have  enabled 
men  to  perpetrate  the  most  cruel  mischiefs 
to  their  own  species. 

113 


[of  benevolence] 

In  the  histories  of  Alexander  and  Caesar 
we  are  frequently,  and  indeed  imperti- 
nently, reminded  of  their  benevolence  and 
generosity,  of  their  clemency  and  kindness. 
When  the  former  had  with  fire  and  sword 
overrun  a  vast  empire,  had  destroyed  the 
lives  of  an  immense  number  of  innocent 
wretches,  had  scattered  ruin  and  desolation 
like  a  whirlwind,  we  are  told,  as  an  example 
of  his  clemency,  that  he  did  not  cut  the 
throat  of  an  old  woman,  and  ravish  her 
daughters,  but  was  content  with  only 
undoing  them.  And  when  the  mighty 
Csesar,  with  wonderful  greatness  of  mind, 
had  destroyed  the  liberties  of  his  country, 
and  with  all  the  means  of  fraud  and  force 
had  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  his 
equals,  had  corrupted  and  enslaved  the 
greatest  people  whom  the  sun  ever  saw, 
we  are  reminded,  as  an  evidence  of  his 
generosity,  of  his  largesses  to  his  followers 
and  tools,  by  whose  means  he  had  accom- 
plished his  purpose,  and  by  whose  assist- 
ance he  was  to  establish  it. 


Pn  one  of  the  early  chapters  of  Joseph 
\        Andrews,   Fielding,   in  illustrating  the   im- 

f  114 


pregnable  virtue  of  his  modern  Saint  An- 
thony (in  the  person  of  Joseph  Andrews), 
records  a  highly  amusing  episode  in  which 
his  hero  is  sorely  tried,  and  from  which  he 
emerges  with  his  virtue  unscathed,  but 
not  unreviled.  The  great  Lady  Booby 
(widow  of  the  squire),  who  employed  Joseph 
as  footman,  called  him  to  her  room  one 
day  and,  for  reasons  better  understood 
by  herself  than  by  her  poor  unsophisti- 
cated footman,  she  flatly  accused  him  of 
too  great  familiarity  with  her  maids.] 

As  a  person  who  is  struck  through  the 
heart  with  a  thunderbolt  looks  extremely 
surprised,  nay,  and  perhaps  is  so  too  — 
thus  the  poor  Joseph  received  the  false 
accusation  of  his  mistress;  he  blushed 
and  looked  confounded,  which  she  mis- 
interpreted to  be  symptoms  of  his  guilt, 
and  thus  went  on :  — 

"Come  hither,  Joseph:  another  mistress 
might  discard  you  for  these  offences;  but 
I  have  a  compassion  for  your  youth,  and 
if  I  could  be  certain  you  would  be  no  more 
guilty  —  Consider,  child,"  laying  her  hand 
carelessly  upon  his,  "you  are  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  and  might  do  better;  you 
might  make  your  fortune." 

1 1 


■> 


"Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "I  do  assure 
your  ladyship  I  don't  know  whether  any 
maid  in  the  house  is  man  or  woman." 

"Oh  fie!  Joseph,"  answered  the  lady, 
"don't  commit  another  crime  in  denying 
the  truth.  I  could  pardon  the  first,  but 
I  hate  a  lyar." 

"Madam,"   cries  Joseph,   "I   hope  your 
ladyship  will  not  be  offended  at  my  assert- 
ing   my    innocence;     for,    by    all    that    is 
sacred,    I    have    never   offered   more   than 
issing. 

"Kissing!"  said  the  lady,  with  great  dis- 
composure of  countenance,  and  more  red- 
ness in  her  cheeks  than  anger  in  her  eyes; 
"do  you  call  that  no  crime?  Kissing, 
Joseph,  is  as  a  prologue  to  a  play.  Can 
I  believe  a  young  fellow  of  your  age  and 
complexion  will  be  content  with  kissing? 
No,  Joseph,  there  is  no  woman  who  grants 
that  but  will  grant  more;  and  I  am  de- 
ceived greatly  in  you  if  you  would  not  put 
her  closely  to  it.  What  would  you  think, 
Joseph,  if  I  admitted  you  to  kiss  me?" 
Joseph  replied  he  would  sooner  die  than 
have  any  such  thought.  "And  yet,  Joseph," 
returned  she,  "ladies  have  admitted  their 
footmen  to  such  familiarities;  and  footmen, 

ii6 


I  confess  to  you,  much  less  deserving  them; 
fellows  without  half  your  charms  —  for  such 
might  almost  excuse  the  crime.  Tell  me 
therefore,  Joseph,  if  I  should  admit  you  to 
such  freedom,  what  would  you  think  of 
me?  —  tell  me  freely." 

**  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  *'I  should  think 
your  ladyship  condescended  a  great  deal 
below  yourself." 

"Pugh!"  said  she;  **that  I  am  to  answer 
to  myself:  but  would  not  you  insist  on 
more?  Would  you  be  contented  with  a 
kiss?  Would  not  your  inclinations  be  all 
on  fire  rather  by  such  a  favour?" 

*' Madam,"  said  Joseph,  **if  they  were, 
I  hope  I  should  be  able  to  controul  them, 
without  suffering  them  to  get  the  better 
of  my  virtue." 

You  have  heard,  reader,  poets  talk  of 
the  statue  of  Surprize;  you  have  heard 
likewise,  or  else  you  have  heard  very 
little,  how  Surprize  made  one  of  the  sons 
of  Croesus  speak,  though  he  was  dumb. 
You  have  seen  the  faces,  in  the  eighteen- 
penny  gallery,  when,  through  the  trap- 
door, to  soft  or  no  music,  Mr.  Bridgewater, 
Mr.  William  Mills,  or  some  other  of  ghostly 
appearance,    hath    ascended,    with    a    face 

117 


all  pale  with  powder,  and  a  shirt  all  bloody 
with  ribbons;  —  but  from  none  of  these, 
nor  from  Phidias  or  Praxiteles,  if  they 
should  return  to  hfe  —  no,  not  from  the 
inimitable  pencil  of  my  friend  Hogarth, 
could  you  receive  such  an  idea  of  surprize 
as  would  have  entered  in  at  your  eyes  had 
they  beheld  the  Lady  Booby  when  those 
last  words  issued  out  from  the  lips  of 
Joseph.  **Your  virtue!"  said  the  lady, 
recovering  after  a  silence  of  two  minutes; 
"I  shall  never  survive  it!  Your  virtue!  — 
intolerable  confidence!  Have  you  the  as- 
surance to  pretend,  that  when  a  lady 
demeans  herself  to  throw  aside  the  rules 
of  decency,  in  order  to  honour  you  with  the 
highest  favour  in  her  power,  your  virtue 
should  resist  her  inclination?  that,  when 
she  had  conquered  her  own  virtue,  she 
should  find  an  obstruction  in  yours?  I 
am  out  of  patience;  did  ever  mortal  hear 
of  a  man's  virtue?  Did  ever  the  greatest 
or  the  gravest  men  pretend  to  any  of 
this  kind?  Will  magistrates  who  punish 
lewdness,  or  parsons  who  preach  against 
it,  make  any  scruple  of  committing  it? 
And  can  a  boy,  a  striphng,  have  the  con- 
fidence to  talk  of  his  virtue?     You  impu- 

ii8 


dent  villain!  Get  out  of  my  sight,  and 
prepare  to  set  out  this  night;  for  I  will 
order  you  your  wages  immediately,  and 
you  shall  be  stripped  and  turned  away. 
.  .  .  You  have  had  the  vanity  to  mis- 
construe the  little  innocent  freedom  I 
took,  in  order  to  try  whether  what  I  had 
heard  was  true.  O!  my  conscience!  You 
have  had  the  assurance  to  imagine  I  was 
fond  of  you  myself!" 

[This  incident  drew  from  Fielding  the  fol- 
lowing apostrophe  on  the  tyranny  of  Love, 
in  which  he  includes  an  oblique  thrust  at 
his  old  detracter,  CoIIey  Gibber:  —  ] 

O  Love,  what  monstrous  tricks  dost  thou 
play  with  thy  votaries  of  both  sexes !  How 
dost  thou  deceive  them,  and  make  them  de- 
ceive themselves!  Their  foUies  are  thy  de- 
light! Their  sighs  make  thee  laugh,  and 
their  pangs  are  thy  merriment! 

Not  the  great  Rich,  who  turns  men  into 
monkeys,  wheel-barrows,  and  whatever  else 
best  humours  his  fancy,  hath  so  strangely 
metamorphosed  the  human  shape;  nor  the 
great  Gibber,  who  confounds  all  number, 
gender,  and  breaks  through  every  rule  of 
grammar  at  his  will,  hath  so  distorted  the 
English  language  as  thou  doth   metamor- 

119 


phose   and   distort  all  the   human   senses. 

Thou  puttest  out  our  eyes,  stoppest  up 
our  ears,  and  takest  away  the  power  of 
our  nostrils;  so  that  we  can  neither  see 
the  largest  object,  hear  the  loudest  noise, 
nor  smell  the  most  poignant  perfume. 
Again,  when  thou  pleasest,  thou  canst 
make  a  molehill  appear  as  a  mountain, 
a  Jew's-harp  sound  like  a  trumpet,  and 
a  daisy  smell  like  a  violet.  Thou  canst 
make  cowardice  brave,  avarice  generous, 
pride  humble,  and  cruelty  tender-hearted. 
In  short,  thou  turnest  the  heart  of  man 
inside  out,  as  a  juggler  doth  a  petticoat, 
and  bringest  whatsoever  pleaseth  thee  out 
from  it. 

[Long  afterwards,  when  Joseph  Andrews 
returned  to  Lady  Booby's  parish  and  was 
about  to  be  married  to  his  adored  Fanny, 
the  lovelorn  Lady  Booby,  whose  jealousy 
was  aroused  —  for  though  she  hated  him, 
she  still  loved  him  —  called  in  parson  Adams 
and  gave  him  peremptory  orders  not  to  pub- 
lish the  banns  or  marry  the  couple.  ] 

'* Madam,"  said  Adams,  "if  your  lady- 
ship will  but  hear  me  speak,  I  protest 
I  never  heard  any  harm  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Andrews;   if  I  had,  I  should  have  corrected 

120 


him  for  it;  for  I  never  have,  nor  will, 
encourage  the  faults  of  those  under  my 
cure.  As  for  the  young  woman,  I  assure 
your  ladyship  I  have  as  good  an  opinion 
of  her  as  your  ladyship  yourself  or  any 
other  can  have.  She  is  the  sweetest-tem- 
pered, honestest,  worthiest  young  creature; 
indeed,  as  to  her  beauty,  I  do  not  com- 
mend her  on  that  account,  though  all  men 
allow  she  is  the  handsomest  woman,  gentle 
or  simple,  that  ever  appeared  in  the  parish." 

"You  are  very  impertinent,"  says  she, 
**to  talk  such  fulsome  stuff  to  me.  It  is 
mighty  becoming  truly  in  a  clergyman  to 
trouble  himself  about  handsome  women, 
and  you  are  a  delicate  judge  of  beauty, 
no  doubt.  A  man  who  hath  lived  all  his 
life  in  such  a  parish  as  this  is  a  rare  judge 
of  beauty!  Ridiculous!  beauty  indeed!  a 
country  wench  a  beauty!  I  shall  be  sick 
whenever  I  hear  beauty  mentioned  again. 
And  so  this  wench  is  to  stock  the  parish 
with  beauties,  I  hope.  But,  sir,  our  poor 
is  numerous  enough  already;  I  will  have 
no  more  vagabonds  settled  here." 

"Madam,"  says  Adams,  "I  only  per- 
form my  office  to  Mr.  Joseph." 

"Pray,  don't  mister  such  fellows  to  me," 

121 


cries  the  lady.  .  .  .  **  Since  you  under- 
stand yourself  no  better,  nor  the  respect 
due  from  such  as  you  to  a  woman  of  my 
distinction,  than  to  affront  my  ears  by 
such  loose  discourse,  I  shall  mention  but 
one  short  word;  it  is  my  orders  to  you 
that  you  publish  these  banns  no  more; 
and  if  you  dare,  I  will  recommend  it  to 
your  master,  the  doctor,  to  discard  you 
from  his  service.  I  will,  sir,  notwithstand- 
ing your  poor  family;  and  then  you  and 
the  greatest  beauty  in  the  parish  may  go 
and  beg  together." 

"Madam,"  answered  Adams,  "I  know 
not  what  your  ladyship  means  by  the 
terms  master  and  service.  1  am  in  the 
service  of  a  Master  who  will  never  discard 
me  for  doing  my  duty;  and  if  the  doctor 
(for  indeed  I  have  never  been  able  to 
pay  for  a  licence)  thinks  proper  to  turn  me 
from  my  cure,  God  will  provide  me,  I 
hope,  another.  At  least,  my  family,  as 
well  as  myself,  have  hands;  and  He  will 
prosper,  I  doubt  not,  our  endeavours  to 
get  our  bread  honestly  with  them.  Whilst 
my  conscience  is  pure,  I  shall  never  fear 
what  man  can  do  unto  me." 


122 


One  situation  only  of  the  married  state 
is  excluded  from  pleasure:  and  that  is, 
a  state  of  indifference:  but  as  many  of 
my  readers,  I  hope,  know  what  an  exquisite 
delight  there  is  in  conveying  pleasure  to 
a  beloved  object,  so  some  few,  I  am  afraid, 
may  have  experienced  the  satisfaction  of 
tormenting  one  we  hate.  It  is,  I  appre- 
hend, to  come  at  this  latter  pleasure,  that 
we  see  both  sexes  often  give  up  that  ease  in 
marriage  which  they  might  otherwise  pos- 
sess, though  their  mate  was  never  so  dis- 
agreeable to  them.  Hence  the  wife  often 
puts  on  fits  of  love  and  jealousy,  nay,  even 
denies  herself  any  pleasure,  to  disturb  and 
prevent  those  of  her  husband ;  and  he  again, 
in  return,  puts  frequent  restraints  upon  him- 
self, and  stays  at  home  in  company  which 
he  dislikes,  in  order  to  confine  his  wife  to 
what  she  equally  detests.  Hence,  too,  must 
flow  those  tears  which  a  widow  sometimes  so 
plentifully  sheds  over  the  ashes  of  a  husband 
with  whom  she  led  a  life  of  constant  disquiet 
andturbulency,  and  whom  now  she  can  never 
hope  to  torment  any  more. 


We  are  not  always  to  conclude,  that  a 
wise   man   is    not   hurt,    because   he   doth 

123 


not  cry  out  and  lament  himself,  like  those 
of  a  childish  or  effeminate  temper. 


As  a  conquered  rebellion  strengthens  a 
government,  or  as  health  is  more  perfectly 
established  by  recovery  from  some  disease; 
so  anger,  when  removed,  often  gives  new 
life  to  affection. 


Prudence  and  circumspection  are  neces- 
sary even  to  the  best  of  men.  They 
are  indeed,  as  it  were,  a  guard  to  Virtue, 
without  which  she  can  never  be  safe. 
It  is  not  enough  that  your  designs,  nay, 
that  your  actions,  are  intrinsically  good; 
you  must  take  care  they  shall  appear  so. 
If  your  inside  be  never  so  beautiful,  you 
must  preserve  a  fair  outside  also.  This 
must  be  constantly  looked  to,  or  malice 
and  envy  will  take  care  to  blacken  it  so, 
that  the  sagacity  and  goodness  of  an 
Allworthy  will  not  be  able  to  see  through 
it,  and  to  discern  the  beauties  within. 
Let  this,  my  young  readers,  be  your  con- 
stant maxim,  that  no  man  can  be  good 
enough  to  enable  him  to  neglect  the  rules 
of  prudence;  nor  will  Virtue  herself  look 
beautiful,  unless  she  be  bedecked  with  the 

124 


outward  ornaments  of  decency  and  de- 
corum. And  this  precept,  my  worthy  dis- 
ciples, if  you  read  with  due  attention, 
you  will,  I  hope,  find  sufficiently  enforced 
by  examples  in  the  following  pages. 

I  ask  pardon  for  this  short  appearance, 
by  way  of  chorus,  on  the  stage.  It  is  in 
reality  for  my  own  sake,  that,  while  I  am 
discovering  the  rocks  on  which  innocence 
and  goodness  often  split,  I  may  not  be 
misunderstood  to  recommend  the  very 
means  to  my  worthy  readers,  by  which 
I  intend  to  show  them  they  will  be  undone. 
And  this,  as  I  could  not  prevail  on  any  of 
my  actors  to  speak,  I  myself  was  obliged 
to  declare.  

Fortune  may  tempt  men  of  no  very  bad 
dispositions  to  injustice;  but  insults  pro- 
ceed only  from  black  and  rancorous  minds, 
and  have  no  temptations  to  excuse  them. 


There  is  nothing  so  dangerous  as  a 
question  which  comes  by  surprize  on  a 
man  whose  business  it  is  to  conceal  truth, 
or  to  defend  falsehood.  For  which  reason 
those  worthy  personages,  whose  noble  office 
it   is    to   save   the    lives    of   their    fellow- 

125 


creatures  at  the  Old  Bailey,  take  the 
utmost  care,  by  frequent  previous  exami- 
nation, to  divine  every  question  which  may 
be  asked  their  clients  on  the  day  of  tryal, 
that  they  may  be  supplyed  with  proper 
and  ready  answers,  which  the  most  fertile 
invention  cannot  supply  in  an  instant. 
Besides,  the  sudden  and  violent  impulse 
on  the  blood,  occasioned  by  these  surprizes, 
causes  frequently  such  an  alteration  in 
the  countenance,  that  the  man  is  obliged 
to  give  evidence  against  himself. 


I  look  upon  the  vulgar  observation, 
"That  the  devil  often  deserts  his  friends, 
and  leaves  them  in  the  lurch,"  to  be  a 
great  abuse  on  that  gentleman's  character. 
Perhaps  he  may  sometimes  desert  those 
who  are  only  his  cup  acquaintance;  or 
who,  at  most,  are  but  half  his;  but  he 
generally  stands  by  those  who  are  thor- 
oughly his  servants,  and  helps  them  off  in 
all  extremities,  till  their  bargain  expires. 


A  secret  (as  some  of  my  readers  will  per- 
haps acknowledge  from  experience)  is  often 
a  very  valuable  possession:    and  that  not 

126 


only  to  those  who  faithfully  keep  it,  but 
sometimes  to  such  as  whisper  it  about  till 
it  come  to  the  ears  of  every  one  except  the 
ignorant  person  who  pays  for  the  supposed 
concealing  of  what  is  publickly  known. 


The  firmness  and  constancy  of  a  true 
friend  is  a  circumstance  so  extremely  de- 
lightful to  persons  in  any  kind  of  distress, 
that  the  distress  itself,  if  it  be  only  tem- 
porary, and  admits  of  relief,  is  more  than 
compensated  by  bringing  this  comfort  with 
it.  Nor  are  instances  of  this  kind  so  rare 
as  some  superficial  and  inaccurate  observ- 
ers have  reported.  To  say  the  truth, 
want  of  compassion  is  not  to  be  numbered 
among  our  general  faults.  The  black  in- 
gredient which  fouls  our  disposition  is 
envy.  Hence  our  eye  is  seldom,  I  am 
afraid,  turned  upward  to  those  who  are 
manifestly  greater,  better,  wiser,  or  hap- 
pier than  ourselves,  without  some  degree 
of  malignity;  while  we  commonly  look 
downwards  on  the  mean  and  miserable 
with  sufficient  benevolence  and  pity.  In 
fact,  I  have  remarked,  that  most  of  the 
defects  which  have  discovered  themselves 
in  the  friendships  within  my  observation 

127 


have  arisen  from  envy  only:  a  hellish 
vice;  and  yet  one  from  which  I  have  known 
very  few  absolutely  exempt. 

I  desire  of  the  philosophers  to  grant,  that 
there  is  in  some  (I  believe  in  many)  human 
breasts  a  kind  and  benevolent  disposition, 
which  is  gratified  by  contributing  to  the 
happiness  of  others.  That  in  this  gratifi- 
cation alone,  as  in  friendship,  in  parental 
and  fihal  affection,  as  indeed  in  general 
philanthropy,  there  is  a  great  and  exquisite 
delight.  That  if  we  will  not  call  such  dis- 
position love,  we  have  no  name  for  it.  That 
though  the  pleasures  arising  from  such  pure 
love  may  be  heightened  and  sweetened  by 
the  assistance  of  amorous  desires,  yet  the 
former  can  subsist  alone,  nor  are  they  de- 
stroyed by  the  intervention  of  the  latter. 
Lastly,  that  esteem  and  gratitude  are  the 
proper  motives  to  love,  as  youth  and  beauty 
are  to  desire,  and,  therefore,  though  such  de- 
sire may  naturally  cease,  when  age  or  sick- 
ness overtakes  its  object;  yet  these  can  have 
no  effect  on  love,  nor  ever  shake  or  remove, 
from  a  good  mind,  that  sensation  or  pas- 
sion which  hath  gratitude  and  esteem  for 
its  basis. 
To  deny  the  existence  of  a  passion  of 

128 


which  we  often  see  manifest  instances, 
seems  to  be  very  strange  and  absurd; 
and  can  indeed  proceed  only  from  that 
self-admonition  which  we  have  mentioned 
above:  but  how  unfair  is  this!  Doth  the 
man  who  recognizes  in  his  own  heart  no 
traces  of  avarice  or  ambition,  conclude, 
therefore,  that  there  are  no  such  passions 
in  human  nature?  Why  will  we  not  mod- 
estly observe  the  same  rule  in  judging  of 
the  good,  as  well  as  the  evil  of  others? 
Or  why,  in  any  case,  will  we,  as  Shakespear 
phrases    it,    "put   the  world    in   our   own 

Predominant  vanity  is,  I  am  afraid, 
too  much  concerned  here.  This  is  one 
instance  of  that  adulation  which  we  bestow 
on  our  own  minds,  and  this  almost  univer- 
sally. For  there  is  scarce  any  man,  how 
much  soever  he  may  despise  the  character 
of  a  flatterer,  but  will  condescend  in  the 
meanest  manner  to  flatter  himself. 

To  those  therefore  I  apply  for  the  truth 
of  the  above  observations,  whose  own 
minds  can  bear  testimony  to  what  I  have 
advanced. 

Examine  your  heart,  my  good  reader, 
and  resolve  whether  you  do  believe  these 

129 


matters  with  me.  If  you  do,  you  may 
now  proceed  to  their  exempHfication  in 
the  following  pages:  if  you  do  not,  you 
have,  I  assure  you,  already  read  more  than 
you  have  understood;  and  it  would  be 
wiser  to  pursue  your  business,  or  your 
pleasures  (such  as  they  are),  than  to 
throw  away  any  more  of  your  time  in 
reading  what  you  can  neither  taste  nor 
comprehend.  To  treat  of  the  effects  of 
love  to  you,  must  be  as  absurd  as  to  dis- 
course on  colours  to  a  man  born  blind; 
since  possibly  your  idea  of  love  may  be  as 
absurd  as  that  which  we  are  told  such 
bhnd  man  once  entertained  of  the  colour 
scarlet;  that  colour  seemed  to  him  to  be 
very  much  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet: 
and  love  probably  may,  in  your  opinion, 
very  greatly  resemble  a  dish  of  soup,  or 
a  surloin  of  roast-beef. 


Fear  is  never  more  uneasy  than  when  it 
doth  not  certainly  know  its  object;  for  on 
such  occasions  the  mind  is  ever  employed  in 
raising  a  thousand  bugbears  and  fantoms, 
much  more  dreadful  than  any  realities,  and, 
like  children  when  they  tell  tales  of  hobgob- 
lins, seems  industrious  in  terrifying  itself. 

130 


Whoever  considers  the  common  fate  of 
great  men  must  allow  they  well  deserve 
and  hardly  [_i  e.,  with  difficulty]  earn  that 
applause  which  is  given  them  by  the 
world;  for,  when  we  reflect  on  the  labours 
and  pains,  the  cares,  disquietudes,  and 
dangers  which  attend  their  road  to  great- 
ness, we  may  say  with  the  divine  that  a 
man  may  go  to  heaven  with  half  the  pains 
which  it  costs  him  to  purchase  hell. 


So  great  a  torment  is  anxiety  to  the 
human  mind,  that  we  always  endeavour  to 
relieve  ourselves  from  it  by  guesses,  how- 
ever doubtful  or  uncertain;  on  all  which 
occasions,  dislike  and  hatred  are  the  surest 
guides  to  lead  our  suspicion  to  its  object. 


Men  of  great  genius  as  easily  discover 
one  another  as  Freemasons  can. 


Circumstances  of  great  improbability 
often  escape  men  who  devour  a  story 
with  greedy  ears. 


Logicians  sometimes  prove  too  much  by 
an  argument,  and  politicians  often  over- 
reach themselves  in  a  scheme. 

131 


My  young  readers,  flatter  not  your- 
selves that  fire  will  not  scorch  as  well  as 
warm,  and  the  longer  we  stay  within  its 
reach  the  more  we  shall  burn.  The  ad- 
miration of  a  beautiful  woman,  though 
the  wife  of  our  dearest  friend,  may  at 
first  perhaps  be  innocent,  but  let  us  not 
flatter  ourselves  it  will  always  remain  so; 
desire  is  sure  to  succeed;  and  wishes,  hopes, 
designs,  with  a  long  train  of  mischiefs, 
tread  close  at  our  heels.  In  affairs  of 
this  kind  we  may  most  properly  apply 
the  well-known  remark  of  nemo  repente 
Juit  turpissimus.  It  fares,  indeed,  with 
us  on  this  occasion  as  with  the  unwary 
traveller  in  some  parts  of  Arabia,  the 
desert,  whom  the  treacherous  sands  im- 
perceptibly betray  till  he  is  overwhelmed 
and  lost.  In  both  cases  the  only  safety 
is  by  withdrawing  our  feet  the  very  first 
moment  we  perceive  them  sliding. 

This  digression  may  appear  impertinent 
to  some  readers;  we  could  not,  however, 
avoid  the  opportunity  of  offering  the  above 
hints;  since  of  all  passions  there  is  none 
against  which  we  should  so  strongly  fortify 
ourselves  as  this,  which  is  generally  called 
love;   for  no  other  lays  before  us,  especially 

132 


in  the  tumultuous  days  of  youth,  such  sweet, 
such  strong  and  almost  irresistible  tempta- 
tions; none  hath  produced  in  private  life 
such  fatal  and  lamentable  tragedies;  and 
what  is  worst  of  all,  there  is  none  to  whose 
poison  and  infatuation  the  best  of  minds 
are  so  liable.  Ambition  scarce  ever  pro- 
duces any  evil  but  when  it  reigns  in  cruel 
and  savage  bosoms;  and  avarice  seldom 
flourishes  at  all  but  in  the  basest  and  poor- 
est soil.  Love,  on  the  contrary,  sprouts  usu- 
ally up  in  the  richest  and  noblest  minds; 
but  there,  unless  nicely  watched,  pruned, 
and  cultivated,  and  carefully  kept  clear  of 
those  vicious  weeds  which  are  too  apt  to 
surround  it,  it  branches  forth  into  wildness 
and  disorder,  produces  nothing  desirable, 
but  choaks  up  and  kills  whatever  is  good 
and  noble  in  the  mind  where  it  so  abounds. 
In  short,  to  drop  the  allegory,  not  only  ten- 
derness and  good  nature,  but  bravery,  gen- 
erosity, and  every  virtue  are  often  made  the 
instruments  of  effecting  the  most  atrocious 
purposes  of  this  all-subduing  tyrant. 


It  is  a  good  maxim  to    trust   a   person 
entirely  or  not  at  all;    for  a  secret  is  often 

133 


innocently  blabbed  out  by  those  who  know 
but  half  of  it.     

To  draw  out  scenes  of  wretchedness  to 
too  great  a  length,  is  a  task  very  uneasy 
to  the  writer,  and  for  which  none  but 
readers  of  a  most  gloomy  complexion  will 
think  themselves  ever  obhged  to  his  labours. 


My  worthy  reader,  console  thyself,  that 
however  few  of  the  other  good  things  of 
life  are  thy  lot,  the  best  of  all  things, 
which  is  innocence,  is  always  within  thy 
own  power;  and,  though  Fortune  may 
make  thee  often  unhappy,  she  can  never 
make  thee  completely  and  irreparably 
miserable  without  thy  own  consent. 


It  is  not  because  innocence  is  more 
bhnd  than  guilt  that  the  former  often 
overlooks  and  tumbles  into  the  pit  which 
the  latter  foresees  and  avoids.  The  truth 
is,  that  it  is  almost  impossible  guilt  should 
miss  the  discovering  of  all  the  snares  in 
its  way,  as  it  is  constantly  prying  closely 
into  every  corner  in  order  to  lay  snares  for 
others.  Whereas  innocence,  having  no 
such  purpose,   walks   fearlessly   and   care- 

134 


lessly  through  life,  and  is  consequently 
liable  to  tread  on  the  gins  which  cunning 
hath  laid  to  entrap  it.  To  speak  plainly 
and  without  allegory  or  figure,  it  is  not 
want  of  sense,  but  want  of  suspicion,  by 
which  innocence  is  often  betrayed.  Again, 
we  often  admire  at  the  folly  of  the  dupe, 
when  we  should  transfer  our  whole  surprize 
to  the  astonishing  guilt  of  the  betrayer. 
In  a  word,  many  an  innocent  person 
hath  owed  his  ruin  to  this  circumscance 
alone,  that  the  degree  of  villany  was  such 
as  must  have  exceeded  the  faith  of  every 
man  who  was  not  himself  a  villain. 


Few  men,  I  believe,  think  better  of  others 
than  of  themselves;  nor  do  they  easily  allow 
the  existence  of  any  virtue  of  which  they 
perceive  no  traces  in  their  own  minds;  for 
which  reason  I  have  observed,  that  it  is 
extremely  difficult  to  persuade  a  rogue  that 
you  are  an  honest  man;  nor  would  you 
ever  succeed  in  the  attempt  by  the  strong- 
est evidence,  was  it  not  for  the  comfortable 
conclusion  which  the  rogue  draws,  that  he 
who  proves  himself  to  be  honest  proves 
himself  to  be  a  fool  at  the  same  time. 

135 


A  true  Christian  can  never  be  disap- 
pointed if  he  doth  not  receive  his  reward 
in  this  world;  the  labourer  might  as  well 
complain  that  he  is  not  paid  his  hire  in 
the  middle  of  the  day. 

Revenge,  indeed,  of  all  kinds  is  strictly 
^  prohibited;    wherefore,    as   we   are   not   to 

)  execute  it  with  our  own  hands,  so  neither 

are  we  to  make  use  of  the  law  as  the  in- 
strument of  private  malice,  and  to  worry 
each  other  with  inveteracy  and  rancour. 
And  where  is  the  great  difficulty  in  obeying 
this  wise,  this  generous,  this  noble  precept? 
If  revenge  be,  as  a  certain  divine,  not 
greatly  to  his  honour,  calls  it,  the  most 
luscious  morsel  the  devil  ever  dropt  into 
the  mouth  of  a  sinner,  it  must  be  allowed 
at  least  to  cost  us  often  extremely  dear. 
It  is  a  dainty,  if  indeed  it  be  one,  which  we 
come  at  with  great  inquietude,  with  great 
difficulty,  and  with  great  danger.  How- 
ever pleasant  it  may  be  to  the  palate  while 
we  are  feeding  on  it,  it  is  sure  to  leave  a 
bitter  relish  behind  it;  and  so  far,  indeed, 
it  may  be  called  a  luscious  morsel,  that  the 
most  greedy  appetites  are  soon  glutted, 
and  the  most  eager  longing  for  it  is  soon 

136 


turned  into  loathing  and  repentance.  I 
allow  there  is  something  tempting  in  its  out- 
ward appearance,  but  it  is  like  the  beautiful 
colour  of  some  poisons,  from  which,  how- 
ever they  may  attract  our  eyes,  a  regard  to 
our  own  welfare  commands  us  to  abstain. 


There  is  not  in  the  universe  a  more 
ridiculous  nor  a  more  contemptible  animal 
than  a  proud  clergyman;  a  turkey-cock 
or  a  jackdaw  are  objects  of  veneration 
when  compared  with  him.  I  don't  mean, 
by  Pride,  that  noble  dignity  of  mind  to 
which  goodness  can  only  administer  an 
adequate  object,  which  delights  in  the 
testimony  of  its  own  conscience,  and  could 
not,  without  the  highest  agonies,  bear  its 
condemnation.  By  Pride  I  mean  that 
saucy  passion  which  exults  in  every  little 
eventual  pre-eminence  over  other  men: 
such  are  the  ordinary  gifts  of  nature, 
and  the  paultry  presents  of  fortune,  wit, 
knowledge,  birth,  strength,  beauty,  riches, 
titles,  and  rank.  That  passion  which  is 
ever  aspiring,  like  a  silly  child,  to  look 
over  the  heads  of  all  about  them;  which, 
while    it    servilely    adheres    to    the    great, 

137 


flies  from  the  poor,  as  if  afraid  of  contami- 
nation; devouring  greedily  every  murmur 
of  applause  and  every  look  of  admiration; 
pleased  and  elated  with  all  kind  of  respect; 
and  hurt  and  enflamed  with  the  contempt 
of  the  lowest  and  most  despicable  of  fools. 


An  injury  is  the  object  of  anger;  danger, 
of  fear,  and  praise,  of  vanity;  and  in  the 
same  simple  manner  it  may  be  asserted 
that  goodness  is  the  object  of  love. 


However  Fortune  may  be  reported  to 
favour  fools,  she  never,  I  believe,  shews 
them  any  countenance  when  they  engage 
in  play  with  knaves. 

[a  short  essay  on  true  wisdom] 

True  wisdom,  notwithstanding  all  which 
Mr.  Hogarth's  poor  poet  may  have  writ 
against  riches,  and  in  spite  of  all  which 
any  rich  well-fed  divine  may  have  preached 
against  pleasure,  consists  not  in  the  con- 
tempt of  either  of  these.  A  man  may  have 
as  much  wisdom  in  the  possession  of  an 
affluent  fortune,  as  any  beggar  in  the 
streets;   or  may  enjoy  a  handsome  wife  or 

138 


a  hearty  friend,  and  still  remain  as  wise 
as  any  sour  popish  recluse,  who  buries 
all  his  social  faculties,  and  starves  his 
belly  while  he  well  lashes  his  back. 

To  say  truth,  the  wisest  man  is  the 
likeliest  to  possess  all  worldly  blessings 
in  an  eminent  degree;  for  as  that  moder- 
ation which  wisdom  prescribes  is  the  sur- 
est way  to  useful  wealth,  so  can  it  alone 
qualify  us  to  taste  many  pleasures.  The 
wise  man  gratifies  every  appetite  and  every 
passion,  while  the  fool  sacrifices  all  the  rest 
to  pall  and  satiate  one. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  very  wise  men 
have  been  notoriously  avaricious.  I  answer, 
Not  wise  in  that  instance.  It  may  likewise 
be  said.  That  the  wisest  men  have  been  in 
their  youth  immoderately  fond  of  pleasure. 
I  answer,  They  were  not  wise  then. 

Wisdom,  in  short,  whose  lessons  have  been 
represented  as  so  hard  to  learn  by  those  who 
never  were  at  her  school,  only  teaches  us  to 
extend  a  simple  maxim  universally  known 
and  followed  even  in  the  lowest  life,  a  little 
farther  than  that  life  carries  it.  And  this 
is,  not  to  buy  at  too  dear  a  price. 

Now,  whoever  takes  this  maxim  abroad 
with   him   into  the   grand   market  of  the 

139 


world,  and  constantly  applies  it  to  honours, 
to  riches,  to  pleasures,  and  to  every  other 
commodity  which  that  market  affords,  is,  I 
will  venture  to  affirm,  a  wise  man,  and 
must  be  so  acknowledged  in  the  worldly 
sense  of  the  word;  for  he  makes  the  best 
of  bargains,  since  in  reality  he  purchases 
everything  at  the  price  of  a  little  trouble, 
and  carries  home  all  the  good  things  I 
have  mentioned,  while  he  keeps  his  health, 
his  innocence,  and  his  reputation,  the 
common  prices  which  are  paid  for  them 
by  others,  entire  and  to  himself. 

From  this  moderation,  likewise,  he  learns 
two  other  lessons,  which  complete  his  char- 
acter. First,  never  to  be  intoxicated  when 
he  hath  made  the  best  bargain,  nor  dejected 
when  the  market  is  empty,  or  when  its  com- 
modities are  too  dear  for  his  purchase. 

[a  short  essay 
on  '*the  world  and  the  stage "] 

The  world  hath  been  often  compared  to 
the  theatre;  and  many  grave  writers,  as 
well  as  the  poets,  have  considered  human 
life  as  a  great  drama,  resembling,  in  almost 
every  particular,  those  scenical  representa- 

140 


tions  which  Thespis  is  first  reported  to 
have  invented,  and  which  have  been  since 
received  with  so  much  approbation  and 
delight  in  all  polite  countries. 

This  thought  hath  been  carried  so  far, 
and  is  become  so  general,  that  some  words 
proper  to  the  theatre,  and  which  were  at 
first  metaphorically  applied  to  the  world, 
are  now  indiscriminately  and  literally  spoken 
of  both;  thus  stage  and  scene  are  by  com- 
mon use  grown  as  familiar  to  us,  when  we 
speak  of  life  in  general,  as  when  we  confine 
ourselves  to  dramatic  performances:  and 
when  transactions  behind  the  curtain  are 
mentioned,  St.  James's  is  more  likely  to 
occur  to  our  thoughts  than  Drury-Iane. 

It  may  seem  easy  enough  to  account 
for  all  this,  by  reflecting  that  the  theatrical 
stage  is  nothing  more  than  a  representation, 
or,  as  Aristotle  calls  it,  an  imitation  of 
what  really  exists;  and  hence,  perhaps, 
we  might  fairly  pay  a  very  high  compli- 
ment to  those  who  by  their  writings  or 
actions  have  been  so  capable  of  imitating 
life,  as  to  have  their  pictures  in  a  manner 
confounded  with,  or  mistaken  for,  the 
originals. 

But,  in  reality,  we  are  not  so  fond  of 

141 


paying  compliments  to  these  people,  whom 
we  use  as  children  frequently  do  the  in- 
struments of  their  amusement;  and  have 
much  more  pleasure  in  hissing  and  buffet- 
ing them,  than  in  admiring  their  excellence. 
There  are  many  other  reasons  which  have 
induced  us  to  see  this  analogy  between  the 
world  and  the  stage. 

Some  have  considered  the  larger  part 
of  mankind  in  the  Hght  of  actors,  as  person- 
ating characters  no  more  their  own,  and 
to  which  in  fact  they  have  no  better  title, 
than  the  player  hath  to  be  in  earnest 
thought  the  king  or  the  emperor  whom  he 
represents.  Thus  the  hypocrite  may  be 
said  to  be  a  player;  and  indeed  the  Greeks 
called  them  both  by  one  and  the  same 
name. 

The  brevity  of  life  hath  likewise  given 
occasion  to  this  comparison.  So  the  im- 
mortal Shakespear  — 

-Life's  a  poor  player, 


That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more. 

For  which  hackneyed  quotation  I  will  make 
the  reader  amends  by  a  very  noble  one, 
which  few,  I  believe,  have  read.  It  is  taken 
from  a  poem  called  The  Deity,  pubhshed 

142 


about  nine  years  ago,  and  long  since  buried 
in  oblivion;  a  proof  that  good  books,  no 
more  than  good  men,  do  always  survive 
the  bad. 

From  Thee  ^  all  human  actions  take  their  springs, 

The  rise  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings! 

See  the  vast  Theatre  of  Time  display'd, 

While  o'er  the  scene  succeeding  heroes  tread! 

With  pomp  the  shining  images  succeed, 

What  leaders  triumph,  and  what  monarchs  bleed! 

Perform  the  parts  thy  providence  assign'd. 

Their  pride,  their  passions,  to  thy  ends  inclin'd: 

Awhile  they  glitter  in  the  face  of  day. 

Then  at  thy  nod  the  phantoms  pass  away; 

No  traces  left  of  all  the  busy  scene, 

But  that  remembrance  says  —  Tbe  things  have  been! 

In  all  these,  however,  and  in  every  other 
similitude  of  life  to  the  theatre,  the  resem- 
blance hath  been  always  taken  from  the 
stage  only.  None,  as  I  remember,  have  at 
all  considered  the  audience  at  this  great 
drama. 

But  as  Nature  often  exhibits  some  of  her 
best  performances  to  a  very  full  house,  so 
will  the  behaviour  of  her  spectators  no  less 
admit  the  above-mentioned  comparison  than 
that  of  her  actors.  In  this  vast  theatre  of 
time  are  seated  the  friend  and  the  critic; 
here  are  claps  and  shouts,  hisses  and  groans; 

1  The  Deity. 


in  short,  everything  which  was  ever  seen  or 
heard  at  the  Theatre-Royal. 

Let  us  examine  this  in  one  example;  for 
instance,  in  the  behaviour  of  the  great 
audience  on  that  scene  which  Nature  was 
pleased  to  exhibit  in  the  twelfth  chapter 
of  the  preceding  book,  where  she  intro- 
duced Black  George  running  away  with 
the  £500  from  his  friend  and  benefactor. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  world's  upper  gal- 
lery treated  that  incident,  I  am  well  con- 
vinced, with  their  usual  vociferation;  and 
every  term  of  scurrilous  reproach  was  most 
probably  vented  on  that  occasion. 

If  we  had  descended  to  the  next  order 
of  spectators,  we  should  have  found  an 
equal  degree  of  abhorrence,  though  less 
of  noise  and  scurrihty;  yet  here  the  good 
women  gave  Black  George  to  the  devil, 
and  many  of  them  expected  every  minute 
that  the  cloven-footed  gentleman  would 
fetch  his  own. 

The  pit,  as  usual,  was  no  doubt  divided; 
those  who  delight  in  heroic  virtue  and 
perfect  character  objected  to  the  producing 
such  instances  of  villany,  without  punish- 
ing them  very  severely  for  the  sake  of 
example.     Some    of    the    author's    friends 

144 


cryed,  ''Look'e,  gentlemen,  the  man  is 
a  villain,  but  it  is  nature  for  all  that." 
And  all  the  young  critics  of  the  age,  the 
clerks,  apprentices,  &c.,  called  it  low,  and 
fell  a  groaning. 

As  for  the  boxes,  they  behaved  with  their 
accustomed  politeness.  Most  of  them  were 
attending  to  something  else.  Some  of  those 
few  who  regarded  the  scene  at  all,  declared 
he  was  a  bad  kind  of  man;  while  others 
refused  to  give  their  opinion,  till  they 
had  heard  that  of  the  best  judges. 

Now  we,  who  are  admitted  behind  the 
scenes  of  this  great  theatre  of  Nature 
(and  no  author  ought  to  write  anything 
besides  dictionaries  and  spelling-books  who 
hath  not  this  privilege),  can  censure  the 
action,  without  conceiving  any  absolute 
detestation  of  the  person,  whom  perhaps 
Nature  may  not  have  designed  to  act  an 
ill  part  in  all  her  dramas;  for  in  this  in- 
stance life  most  exactly  resembles  the 
stage,  since  it  is  often  the  same  person 
who  represents  the  villain  and  the  heroe; 
and  he  who  engages  your  admiration  to-day 
will  probably  attract  your  contempt  to- 
morrow. As  Garrick,  whom  I  regard  in 
tragedy    to    be    the    greatest    genius    the 

145 


world  hath  ever  produced,  sometimes  con- 
descends to  play  the  fool;  so  did  Scipio 
the  Great,  and  Lselius  the  Wise,  according 
to  Horace,  many  years  ago;  nay,  Cicero 
reports  them  to  have  been  ''incredibly 
childish."  These,  it  is  true,  played  the 
fool,  like  my  friend  Garrick,  in  jest  only; 
but  several  eminent  characters  have,  in 
numberless  instances  of  their  lives,  played 
the  fool  egregiously  in  earnest;  so  far  as 
to  render  it  a  matter  of  some  doubt  whether 
their  wisdom  or  folly  was  predominant; 
or  whether  they  were  better  intitled  to  the 
applause  or  censure,  the  admiration  or 
contempt,  the  love  or  hatred,  of  mankind. 
Those  persons,  indeed,  who  have  passed 
any  time  behind  the  scenes  of  this  great 
theatre,  and  are  thoroughly  acquainted 
not  only  with  the  several  disguises  which 
are  there  put  on,  but  also  with  the  fantastic 
and  capricious  behaviour  of  the  Passions, 
who  are  the  managers  and  directors  of 
this  theatre  (for  as  to  Reason,  the  patentee, 
he  is  known  to  be  a  very  idle  fellow  and 
seldom  to  exert  himself),  may  most  prob- 
ably have  learned  to  understand  the  fa- 
mous nil  admirari  of  Horace,  or  in  the 
English  phrase,  to  stare  at  nothing. 

146 


A  single  bad  act  no  more  constitutes 
a  villain  in  life,  than  a  single  bad  part  on 
the  stage.  The  passions,  like  the  managers 
of  a  playhouse,  often  force  men  upon  parts 
without  consulting  their  judgment,  and 
sometimes  without  any  regard  to  their 
talents.  Thus  the  man,  as  well  as  the 
player,  may  condemn  what  he  himself 
acts;  nay,  it  is  common  to  see  vice  sit  as 
awkwardly  on  some  men,  as  the  character 
of  lago  would  on  the  honest  face  of  Mr. 
William  Mills. 

Upon  the  whole,  then,  the  man  of  can- 
dour and  of  true  understanding  is  never 
hasty  to  condemn.  He  can  censure  an 
imperfection,  or  even  a  vice,  without  rage 
against  the  guilty  party.  In  a  word,  they 
are  the  same  folly,  the  same  childishness, 
the  same  ill-breeding,  and  the  same  ill- 
nature,  which  raise  all  the  clamours  and 
uproars  both  in  life  and  on  the  stage. 
The  worst  of  men  generally  have  the 
words  rogue  and  villain  most  in  their 
mouths,  as  the  lowest  of  all  wretches  are 
the  aptest  to  cry  out  low  in  the  pit. 


The   author   who   will   make   me   weep, 
says  Horace,  must  first  weep  himself.     In 

147 


reality,  no  man  can  paint  a  distress  well 
which  he  doth  not  feel  while  he  is  painting 
it;  nor  do  I  doubt,  but  that  the  most 
pathetic  and  affecting  scenes  have  been 
writ  with  tears.  In  the  same  manner 
it  is  with  the  ridiculous.  I  am  convinced 
I  never  make  my  reader  laugh  heartily 
but  where  I  have  laughed  before  him; 
unless  it  should  happen  at  any  time,  that 
instead  of  laughing  with  me  he  should 
be  inclined  to  laugh  at  me.  Perhaps  this 
may  have  been  the  case  at  some  passages 
in  this  chapter,  from  which  apprehension 
I  will  here  put  an  end  to  it. 

[an  essay  on  habit] 

Habit,  my  good  reader,  hath  so  vast  a 
prevalence  over  the  human  mind,  that 
there  is  scarce  anything  too  strange  or  too 
strong  to  be  asserted  of  it.  The  story  of 
the  miser,  who,  from  long  accustoming 
to  cheat  others,  came  at  last  to  cheat 
himself,  and  with  great  delight  and  triumph 
picked  his  own  pocket  of  a  guinea  to  con- 
vey to  his  hoard,  is  not  impossible  or 
improbable.  In  like  manner  it  fares  with 
the  practisers  of  deceit,  who,  from  having 
long  deceived  their  acquaintance,  gain  at 

148 


last  a  power  of  deceiving  themselves,  and 
acquire  that  very  opinion  (however  false) 
of  their  own  abilities,  excellencies,  and 
virtues,  into  which  they  have  for  years 
perhaps  endeavoured  to  betray  their  neigh- 
bours. Now,  reader,  to  apply  this  obser- 
vation to  my  present  purpose,  thou  must 
know,  that  as  the  passion  generally  called 
love  exercises  most  of  the  talents  of  the 
female  or  fair  world,  so  in  this  they  now 
and  then  discover  a  small  inclination  to 
deceit;  for  which  thou  wilt  not  be  angry 
with  the  beautiful  creatures  when  thou 
hast  considered  that  at  the  age  of  seven, 
or  something  earlier,  miss  is  instructed 
by  her  mother  that  master  is  a  very  mon- 
strous kind  of  animal,  who  will,  if  she 
suffers  him  to  come  too  near  her,  infallibly 
eat  her  up  and  grind  her  to  pieces:  that, 
so  far  from  kissing  or  toying  with  him  of 
her  own  accord,  she  must  not  admit  him 
to  kiss  or  toy  with  her:  and,  lastly,  that 
she  must  never  have  any  affection  towards 
him;  for  if  she  should,  all  her  friends 
in  petticoats  would  esteem  her  a  traitress, 
point  at  her,  and  hunt  her  out  of  their 
society.  These  impressions,  being  first  re- 
ceived,  are  farther  and  deeper  inculcated 

149 


by  their  school-mistresses  and  companions; 
so  that  by  the  age  of  ten  they  have  con- 
tracted such  a  dread  and  abhorrence  of 
the  above-named  monster,  that  whenever 
they  see  him  they  fly  from  him  as  the 
innocent  hare  doth  from  the  greyhound. 
Hence,  to  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen, 
they  entertain  a  mighty  antipathy  to  mas- 
ter; they  resolve,  and  frequently  profess, 
that  they  will  never  have  any  commerce 
with  him,  and  entertain  fond  hopes  of 
passing  their  lives  out  of  his  reach,  of  the 
possibility  of  which  they  have  so  visible 
an  example  in  their  good  maiden  aunt. 
But  when  they  arrive  at  this  period,  and 
have  now  passed  their  second  climacteric, 
when  their  wisdom,  grown  riper,  begins 
to  see  a  little  farther,  and,  from  almost 
daily  falling  in  master's  way,  apprehend 
the  great  difficulty  of  keeping  out  of  it; 
and  when  they  observe  him  look  often  at 
them,  and  sometimes  very  eagerly  and 
earnestly  too  (for  the  monster  seldom 
takes  any  notice  of  them  till  at  this  age), 
they  then  begin  to  think  of  their  danger; 
and,  as  they  perceive  they  cannot  easily 
avoid  him,  the  wiser  part  bethink  them- 
selves   of  providing   by    other   means    for 

150 


their  security.  They  endeavour,  by  all 
methods  they  can  invent,  to  render  them- 
selves so  amiable  in  his  eyes,  that  he  may 
have  no  inclination  to  hurt  them;  in  which 
they  generally  succeed  so  well,  that  his 
eyes,  by  frequent  languishing,  soon  lessen 
their  idea  of  his  fierceness,  and  so  far  abate 
their  fears,  that  they  venture  to  parley 
with  him;  and  when  they  perceive  him 
so  different  from  what  he  hath  been  de- 
scribed, all  gentleness,  softness,  kindness, 
tenderness,  fondness,  their  dreadful  appre- 
hensions vanish  in  a  moment;  and  now  (it 
being  usual  with  the  human  mind  to  skip 
from  one  extreme  to  its  opposite,  as  easily, 
and  almost  as  suddenly,  as  a  bird  from  one 
bough  to  another)  love  instantly  succeeds 
to  fear:  but,  as  it  happens  to  persons  who 
have  in  their  infancy  been  thoroughly 
frightened  with  certain  no-persons  called 
ghosts,  that  they  retain  their  dread  of 
those  beings  after  they  are  convinced  that 
there  are  no  such  things,  so  these  young 
ladies,  though  they  no  longer  apprehend 
devouring,  cannot  so  entirely  shake  off 
all  that  hath  been  instilled  into  them; 
they  still  entertain  the  idea  of  that  censure 
which  was  so  strongly  imprinted  on  their 

151 


tender  minds,  to  which  the  declarations 
of  abhorrence  they  every  day  hear  from 
their  companions  greatly  contribute.  To 
avoid  this  censure,  therefore,  is  now  their 
only  care;  for  which  purpose  they  still 
pretend  the  same  aversion  to  the  monster: 
and  the  more  they  love  him,  the  more 
ardently  they  counterfeit  the  antipathy. 
By  the  continual  and  constant  practice 
of  which  deceit  on  others,  they  at  length 
impose  on  themselves,  and  really  believe 
they  hate  what  they  love. 


There  are  a  set  of  religious,  or  rather 
moral  writers,  who  teach  that  virtue  is 
the  certain  road  to  happiness,  and  vice  to 
misery,  in  this  world.  A  very  wholesome 
and  comfortable  doctrine,  and  to  which 
we  have  but  one  objection,  namely,  that 
it  is  not  true. 

Indeed,  if  by  virtue  these  wTiters  mean 
the  exercise  of  those  cardinal  virtues,  which 
like  good  housewives  stay  at  home,  and 
mind  only  the  business  of  their  own  family, 
I  shall  very  readily  concede  the  point; 
for  so  surely  do  all  these  contribute  and 
lead    to    happiness,    that    I    could    almost 

152 


wish,  in  violation  of  all  the  anticnt  and 
modern  sages,  to  call  them  rather  by  the 
name  of  wisdom,  than  by  that  of  virtue; 
for,  with  regard  to  this  life,  no  system, 
I  conceive,  was  ever  wiser  than  that  of 
the  antient  Epicureans,  who  held  this 
wisdom  to  constitute  the  chief  good;  nor 
foolisher  than  that  of  their  opposites,  those 
modern  epicures,  who  place  all  felicity  in 
the  abundant  gratification  of  every  sensual 
appetite. 

But  if  by  virtue  is  meant  (as  I  almost 
think  it  ought)  a  certain  relative  quality, 
which  is  always  busying  itself  without- 
doors,  and  seems  as  much  interested  in 
pursuing  the  good  of  others  as  its  own; 
I  cannot  so  easily  agree  that  this  is  the 
surest  way  to  human  happiness;  because 
I  am  afraid  we  must  then  include  poverty 
and  contempt,  with  all  the  mischiefs  which 
backbiting,  envy,  and  ingratitude,  can  bring 
on  mankind,  in  our  idea  of  happiness; 
nay,  sometimes  perhaps  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  wait  upon  the  said  happiness  to  a  jail; 
since  many  by  the  above  virtue  have 
brought  themselves  thither. 


153 


[a  short,  instructive  essay  on  books] 

The  present  age  seems  pretty  well  agreed 
in  an  opinion,  that  the  utmost  scope  and 
end  of  reading  is  amusement  only;  and 
such,  indeed,  are  now  the  fashionable 
books,  that  a  reader  can  propose  no  more 
than  mere  entertainment,  and  it  is  some- 
times very  well  for  him  if  he  finds  even 
this,  in  his  studies. 

Letters,  however,  were  surely  intended 
for  a  much  more  noble  and  profitable 
purpose  than  this.  Writers  are  not,  I 
presume,  to  be  considered  as  mere  jack- 
puddings,  whose  business  it  is  only  to 
excite  laughter:  this,  indeed,  may  some- 
times be  intermixed  and  served  up  with 
graver  matters,  in  order  to  titillate  the 
palate,  and  to  recommend  wholesome  food 
to  the  mind;  and  for  this  purpose  it  hath 
been  used  by  many  excellent  authors: 
"for  why,"  as  Horace  says,  ** should  not 
any  one  promulgate  truth  with  a  smile 
on  his  countenance?"  Ridicule  indeed,  as 
he  again  intimates,  is  commonly  a  stronger 
and  better  method  of  attacking  vice  than 
the  severer  kind  of  satire. 

When  wit  and   humour  are   introduced 

154 


for  such  good  purposes,  when  the  agree- 
able is  blended  with  the  useful,  then  is  the 
writer  said  to  have  succeeded  in  every 
point.  Pleasantry  (as  the  ingenious  author 
of  Clarissa  says  of  a  story)  should  be  made 
only  the  vehicle  of  instruction;  and  thus 
romances  themselves,  as  well  as  epic  poems, 
may  become  worthy  the  perusal  of  the 
greatest  of  men:  but  when  no  moral, 
no  lesson,  no  instruction,  is  conveyed  to 
the  reader,  where  the  whole  design  of  the 
composition  is  no  more  than  to  make  us 
laugh,  the  writer  comes  very  near  to  the 
character  of  a  buffoon;  and  his  admirers, 
if  an  old  Latin  proverb  be  true,  deserve 
no  great  compliments  to  be  paid  to  their 
wisdom. 

After  what  I  have  here  advanced  I 
cannot  fairly,  I  think,  be  represented  as 
an  enemy  to  laughter,  or  to  all  those 
kinds  of  writing  that  are  apt  to  promote 
it.  On  the  contrary,  few  men,  I  believe, 
do  more  admire  the  works  of  those  great 
masters  who  have  sent  their  satire  (if 
I  may  use  the  expression)  laughing  into 
the  world.  Such  are  the  great  triumvirate, 
Lucian,  Cervantes,  and  Swift.  These 
authors   I   shall  ever  hold  in  the  highest 

155 


degree  of  esteem;  not  indeed  for  that  wit 
and  humour  alone  which  they  all  so  emi- 
nently possessed,  but  because  they  all  en- 
deavoured, with  the  utmost  force  of  their 
wit  and  humour,  to  expose  and  extirpate 
those  follies  and  vices  which  chiefly  pre- 
vailed in  their  several  countries.  I  would 
not  be  thought  to  confme  wit  and  humour 
to  these  writers.  Shakspeare,  Moliere,  and 
some  other  authors,  have  been  blessed 
with  the  same  talents,  and  have  employed 
them  to  the  same  purposes.  There  are 
some,  however,  who,  though  not  void 
of  these  talents,  have  made  so  wretched 
a  use  of  them,  that,  had  the  consecration 
of  their  labours  been  committed  to  the 
hands  of  the  hangman,  no  good  man 
would  have  regretted  their  loss;  nor  am 
I  afraid  to  mention  Rabelais,  and  Aris- 
tophanes himself,  in  this  number.  For,  if 
I  may  speak  my  opinion  freely  of  these 
two  last  writers,  and  of  their  works,  their 
design  appears  to  me  very  plainly  to  have 
been  to  ridicule  all  sobriety,  modesty, 
decency,  virtue,  and  religion,  out  of  the 
world.  Now,  whoever  reads  over  the  five 
great  writers  first  mentioned  in  this  para- 
graph, must  either  have  a  very  bad  head 

156 


or  a  very  bad  heart  if  he  doth  not  become 
both  a  wiser  and  a  better  man. 

In  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  as  well  as 
in  the  exercise  of  the  body,  diversion  is  a 
secondary  consideration,  and  designed  only 
to  make  that  agreeable  which  is  at  the 
same  time  useful,  to  such  noble  purposes 
as  health  and  wisdom.  But  what  should 
we  say  to  a  man  who  mounted  his  chamber- 
hobby,  or  fought  with  his  own  shadow, 
for  his  amusement  only?  how  much  more 
absurd  and  weak  would  he  appear  who 
swallowed  poison  because  it  was  sweet? 

How  differently  did  Horace  think  of 
study  from  our  modern  readers! 

Quid  verum  atque  decens  euro  et  rogo,  et  omnis  in 

hoc  sum: 
Condo  et  compono,  quae  mox  depromere  posslm. 

"Truth  and  decency  are  my  whole  care 
and  enquiry.  In  this  study  I  am  entirely 
occupied;  these  I  am  always  laying  up,  and 
so  disposing  that  I  can  at  any  time  draw 
forth  my  stores  for  my  immediate  use." 
The  whole  epistle,  indeed,  from  which  I 
have  paraphrased  this  passage,  is  a  com- 
ment upon  it,  and  affords  many  useful  les- 
sons of  philosophy. 

When   we   are   employed    in    reading   a 

157 


I 


great  and  good  author,  we  ought  to  con- 
sider ourselves  as  searching  after  treasures, 
which,  if  well  and  regularly  laid  up  in  the 
mind,  will  be  of  use  to  us  on  sundry  occa- 
sions in  our  lives.  If  a  man,  for  instance, 
should  be  overloaded  with  prosperity  or 
adversity  (both  of  which  cases  are  liable 
to  happen  to  us),  who  is  there  so  very  wise, 
or  so  very  foohsh,  that,  if  he  was  a  master 
of  Seneca  and  Plutarch,  could  not  find 
great  matter  of  comfort  and  utility  from 
their  doctrines?  I  mention  these  rather 
than  Plato  and  Aristotle,  as  the  works  of 
the  latter  are  not,  I  think,  yet  completely 
made  English,  and,  consequently,  are  less 
within  the  reach  of  most  of  my  country- 
men. 

But  perhaps  it  may  be  asked,  will 
Seneca  or  Plutarch  make  us  laugh?  Per- 
haps not;  but  if  you  are  not  a  fool,  my 
worthy  friend,  which  I  can  hardly  with 
civility  suspect,  they  will  both  (the  latter 
especially)  please  you  more  than  if  they 
did.  For  my  own  part,  I  declare,  I  have 
not  read  even  Lucian  himself  with  more 
delight  than  I  have  Plutarch;  but  surely 
it  is  astonishing  that  such  scribblers  as 
Tom  Brown,  Tom  D'Urfey,  and  the  wits 

158 


of  our  age,  should  find  readers,  while  the 
writings  of  so  excellent,  so  entertaining, 
and  so  voluminous  an  author  as  Plutarch 
remain  in  the  world,  and,  as  I  apprehend, 
are  very  little  known. 

The  truth  I  am  afraid  is,  that  real  taste 
is  a  quality  with  which  human  nature  is 
very  slenderly  gifted.  It  is  indeed  so  very 
rare,  and  so  little  known,  that  scarce  two 
authors  have  agreed  in  their  notions  of 
it;  and  those  who  have  endeavoured  to 
explain  it  to  others  seem  to  have  succeeded 
only  in  shewing  us  that  they  know  it  not 
themselves.  If  I  might  be  allowed  to  give 
my  own  sentiments,  I  should  derive  it 
from  a  nice  harmony  between  the  imagi- 
nation and  the  judgment;  and  hence  per- 
haps it  is  that  so  few  have  ever  possessed 
this  talent  in  any  eminent  degree.  Neither 
of  these  will  alone  bestow  it;  nothing  is 
indeed  more  common  than  to  see  men  of 
very  bright  imaginations,  and  of  very  accu- 
rate learning  (which  can  hardly  be  acquired 
without  judgment),  who  are  entirely  devoid 
of  taste;  and  Longinus,  who  of  all  men 
seems  most  exquisitely  to  have  possessed 
it,  will  puzzle  his  reader  very  much  if  he 
should   attempt  to  decide  whether  imagi- 

159 


nation  or  judgment  shine  the  brighter  in 
that  inimitable  critic.  .  .  . 

The  first  thing  a  child  is  fond  of  in  a  book 
is  a  picture,  the  second  is  a  story,  and  the 
third  a  jest.  Here  then  is  the  true  Pons 
Asinorum,  which  very  few  readers  ever  get 
over. 

From  what  I  have  said  it  may  perhaps 
be  thought  to  appear  that  true  taste  is 
the  real  gift  of  nature  only;  and  if  so,  some 
may  ask  to  what  purpose  have  I  en- 
deavoured to  show  men  that  they  are 
without  a  blessing  which  it  is  impossible 
for  them  to  attain? 

Now,  though  it  is  certain  that  to  the 
highest  consummation  of  taste,  as  well 
as  of  every  other  excellence,  nature  must 
lend  much  assistance,  yet  great  is  the 
power  of  art,  almost  of  itself,  or  at  best 
with  only  slender  aids  from  nature;  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  there  are  very  few  who 
have  not  in  their  minds  some  small  seeds 
of  taste.  "All  men,"  says  Cicero,  "have 
a  sort  of  tacit  sense  of  what  is  right  or 
wrong  in  arts  and  sciences,  even  without 
the  help  of  arts."  This  surely  it  is  in  the 
power  of  art  very  greatly  to  improve. 
That    most    men,    therefore,    proceed    no 

1 60 


farther  than  as  I  have  above  declared,  is 
owing  either  to  the  want  of  any,  or  (which 
is  perhaps  yet  worse)  to  an  improper 
education.  .  .  .  "Evil  communications  cor- 
rupt good  manners,"  is  a  quotation  of  St. 
Paul  from  Menander.  Evil  books  corrupt  at 
once  both  our  manners  and  our  taste. 


Contempt  is  a  port  to  which  the  pride 
of  man  submits  to  fly  with  reluctance, 
but  those  who  are  within  it  are  always  in 
a  place  of  the  most  assured  security. 


Nothing  is  more  unjust  than  to  carry' 
our  prejudices  against  a  profession  into 
private  life,  and  to  borrow  our  idea  of  a 
man  from  our  opinion  of  his  calling.  Habit, 
it  is  true,  lessens  the  horror  of  those  actions 
which  the  profession  makes  necessary,  and 
consequently  habitual;  but  in  all  other 
instances,  Nature  works  in  men  of  all 
professions  alike;  nay,  perhaps,  even  more 
strongly  with  those  who  give  her,  as  it 
were,  a  holiday,  when  they  are  following 
their  ordinary  business.  A  butcher,  I  make 
no  doubt,  would  feel  compunction  at  the 
slaughter  of  a  fine  horse;    and  though  a 

i6i 


surgeon  can  feel  no  pain  in  cutting  off 
a  limb,  I  have  known  him  compassionate 
a  man  in  a  fit  of  the  gout.  The  common 
hangman,  who  hath  stretched  the  necks 
of  hundreds,  is  known  to  have  trembled 
at  his  first  operation  on  a  head:  and  the 
very  professors  of  human  blood-shedding, 
who,  in  their  trade  of  war,  butcher  thou- 
sands, not  only  of  their  fellow-professors, 
but  often  of  women  and  children,  without 
remorse;  even  these,  I  say,  in  times  of 
peace,  when  drums  and  trumpets  are  laid 
aside,  often  lay  aside  all  their  ferocity, 
and  become  very  gentle  members  of  civil 
society.  In  the  same  manner  an  attorney 
may  feel  all  the  miseries  and  distresses 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  provided  he  happens 
not  to  be  concerned  against  them. 


The  good  or  evil  we  confer  on  others 
very  often,  I  believe,  recoils  on  ourselves. 
For  as  men  of  a  benign  disposition  enjoy 
their  own  acts  of  beneficence  equally  with 
those  to  whom  they  are  done,  so  there  are 
scarce  any  natures  so  entirely  diabolical, 
as  to  be  capable  of  doing  injuries,  without 
paying  themselves  some  pangs  for  the  ruin 
which  they  bring  on  their  fellow-creatures. 

162 


There  is  a  kind  of  sympathy  in  honest 
minds,  by  means  of  which  they  give  an  easy 
credit  to  each  other. 


Persons  who  suspect  they  have  given 
others  cause  of  offence,  are  apt  to  conclude 
they  are  offended. 


It  hath  been  observed  by  some  man  of 
much  greater  reputation  for  wisdom  than 
myself,  that  misfortunes  seldom  come  single. 
An  instance  of  this  may,  I  believe,  be  seen 
in  those  gentlemen  who  have  the  misfortune 
to  have  any  of  their  rogueries  detected;  for 
here  discovery  seldom  stops  till  the  whole  is 
come  out. 

"Parva  leves  capiunt  animos  —  Small 
things  affect  light  minds,"  was  the  senti- 
ment of  a  great  master  of  the  passion  of 
love. 

The  porter  at  a  great  man's  door  is  a 
kind  of  thermometer,  by  which  you  may 
discover  the  warmth  or  coldness  of  his 
master's  friendship.  Nay,  in  the  highest 
stations  of  all,  as  the  great  man  himself 
hath  his  different  kinds  of  salutation,  from 

163 


an  hearty  embrace  with  a  kiss,  and  my 
dear   lord   or   dear   Sir   Charles,   down   to, 

well  Mr. ,  what  would  you  have  me 

do?  so  the  porter  to  some  bows  with  re- 
spect, to  others  with  a  smile,  to  some  he 
bows  more,  to  others  less  low,  to  others 
not  at  all.  Some  he  just  lets  in,  and  others 
he  just  shuts  out.  And  in  all  this  they  so 
well  correspond,  that  one  would  be  inclined 
to  think  that  the  great  man  and  his  porter 
had  compared  their  lists  together,  and, 
like  two  actors  concerned  to  act  different 
parts  in  the  same  scene,  had  rehearsed 
their  parts  privately  together  before  they 
ventured  to  perform  in  public.  .  .  . 

I  have  often  thought  that,  by  the  partic- 
ular description  of  Cerberus,  the  porter 
of  hell,  in  the  6th  JEneid,  Virgil  might 
possibly  intend  to  satirize  the  porters  of 
the  great  men  in  his  time;  the  picture, 
at  least,  resembles  those  who  have  the 
honour  to  attend  at  the  doors  of  our  great 
men.  The  porter  in  his  lodge  answers 
exactly  to  Cerberus  in  his  den,  and,  like 
him,  must  be  appeased  by  a  sop  before 
access  can  be  gained  to  his  master. 


Though  title  and  fortune  communicate 

164 


a  splendor  all  around  them,  and  the  foot- 
men of  men  of  quality  and  of  estate  think 
themselves  entitled  to  a  part  of  that 
respect  which  is  paid  to  the  quality  and 
estate  of  their  masters,  it  is  clearly  oth- 
erwise with  regard  to  virtue  and  under- 
standing. These  advantages  are  strictly 
personal,  and  swallow  themselves  all  the 
respect  which  is  paid  to  them.  To  say 
the  truth,  this  is  so  very  little,  that  they 
cannot  well  afford  to  let  any  others  partake 
with  them.  As  these  therefore  reflect  no 
honour  on  the  domestic,  so  neither  is  he 
at  all  dishonoured  by  the  most  deplorable 
want  of  both  in  his  master.  Indeed  it 
is  otherwise  in  the  want  of  what  is  called 
virtue  in  a  mistress,  the  consequence  of 
which  we  have  before  seen:  for  in  this 
dishonour  there  is  a  kind  of  contagion, 
which,  like  that  of  poverty,  communicates 
itself  to  all  who  approach  it. 

Now  for  these  reasons  we  are  not  to 
wonder  that  servants-  (I  mean  among  the 
men  only)  should  have  so  great  regard  for 
the  reputation  of  the  wealth  of  their  mas- 
ters, and  little  or  none  at  all  for  their 
character  in  other  points,  and  that,  though 
they  would  be  ashamed  to  be  the  footman 

165 


of  a  beggar,  they  are  not  so  to  attend 
upon  a  rogue  or  a  blockhead;  and  do 
consequently  make  no  scruple  to  spread 
the  fame  of  the  iniquities  and  follies  of 
their  said  masters  as  far  as  possible,  and 
this  often  with  great  humour  and  merri- 
ment. In  reality,  a  footman  is  often  a 
wit  as  well  as  a  beau,  at  the  expence  of 
the  gentleman  whose  livery  he  wears. 


Nothing  is  more  erroneous  than  the 
common  observation,  that  men  who  are 
ill-natured  and  quarrelsome  when  they 
are  drunk,  are  very  worthy  persons  when 
they  are  sober:  for  drink,  in  reality,  doth 
not  reverse  nature,  or  create  passions  in 
men  which  did  not  exist  in  them  before. 
It  takes  away  the  guard  of  reason,  and 
consequently  forces  us  to  produce  those 
symptoms,  which  many,  when  sober,  have 
art  enough  to  conceal.  It  heightens  and 
inflames  our  passions  (generally  indeed 
that  passion  which  is  uppermost  in  our 
mind),  so  that  the  angry  temper,  the 
amorous,  the  generous,  the  good-humoured, 
the  avaricious,  and  all  other  dispositions 
of  men,  are  in  their  cups  heightened  and 
exposed. 

1 66 


And  yet  as  no  nation  produces  so  many 
drunken  quarrels,  especially  among  the 
lower  people,  as  England  (for  indeed,  with 
them,  to  drink  and  to  fight  together  are 
almost  synonymous  terms),  I  would  not, 
methinks,  have  it  thence  concluded,  that 
the  EngHsh  are  the  worst-natured  people 
alive.  Perhaps  the  love  of  glory  only  is 
at  the  bottom  of  this;  so  that  the  fair 
conclusion  seems  to  be,  that  our  country- 
men have  more  of  that  love,  and  more 
of  bravery,  than  any  other  plebeians.  And 
this  the  rather,  as  there  is  seldom  anything 
ungenerous,  unfair,  or  ill-natured,  exercised 
on  these  occasions:  nay,  it  is  common  for 
the  combatants  to  express  good-will  for 
each  other  even  at  the  time  of  the  con- 
flict; and  as  their  drunken  mirth  gener- 
ally ends  in  a  battle,  so  do  most  of  their 
battles  end  in  friendship. 


If  there  be  enough  of  goodness  in  a 
character  to  engage  the  admiration  and 
affection  of  a  well-disposed  mind,  though 
there  should  appear  some  of  those  little 
blemishes  quas  humana  parum  cavit  natura, 
they  will  raise  our  compassion  rather  than 
our  abhorrence.     Indeed,   nothing  can  be 

167 


of  more  moral  use  than  the  imperfections 
which  are  seen  in  examples  of  this  kind; 
since  such  form  a  kind  of  surprize,  more 
apt  to  affect  and  dwell  upon  our  minds 
than  the  faults  of  very  vicious  and  wicked 
persons.  The  foibles  and  vices  of  men, 
in  whom  there  is  great  mixture  of  good, 
become  more  glaring  objects  from  the  vir- 
tues which  contrast  them  and  shew  their 
deformity;  and  when  we  find  such  vices 
attended  with  their  evil  consequence  to 
our  favourite  characters,  we  are  not  only 
taught  to  shun  them  for  our  own  sake,  but 
to  hate  them  for  the  mischiefs  they  have 
already  brought  on  those  we  love. 


All  persons  under  the  apprehension  of 
danger  convert  whatever  they  see  and  hear 
into  the  objects  of  that  apprehension. 


Fear  hath  the  common  fault  of  a  justice 
of  peace,  and  is  apt  to  conclude  hastily  from 
every  slight  circumstance,  without  examin- 
ing the  evidence  on  both  sides. 


It  is  an  observation  sometimes  made, 
that  to  indicate  our  idea  of  a  simple  fellow, 
we  say,   he  is  easily  to  be  seen  through: 

1 68 


nor  do  I  believe  it  a  more  improper  de- 
notation of  a  simple  book. 


Notwithstanding  the  sentiment  of  the 
Roman  satirist,  which  denies  the  divinity  of 
fortune,  and  the  opinion  of  Seneca  to  the 
same  purpose;  Cicero,  who  was,  I  believe, 
a  wiser  man  than  either  of  them,  expressly 
holds  the  contrary;  and  certain  it  is,  there 
are  some  incidents  in  life  so  very  strange 
and  unaccountable,  that  it  seems  to  require 
more  than  human  skill  and  foresight  in 
producing  them. 


It  may  be  laid  down  as  a  general  rule, 
that  no  woman  who  hath  any  great  pre- 
tensions to  admiration  is  ever  well  pleased 
in  a  company  where  she  perceives  herself 
to  fill  only  the  second  place.  This  obser- 
vation, however,  I  humbly  submit  to  the 
judgment  of  the  ladies,  and  hope  it  will 
be  considered  as  retracted  by  me  if  they 
shall  dissent  from  my  opinion. 


Of  all  the  ministers  of  vengeance,  there 
are  none  with  whom  the  devil  deals  so 
treacherously  as  with  those  whom  he  em- 
ploys   in   executing  the   mischievous  pur- 

169 


poses  of  an  angry  mistress;  for  no  sooner 
is  revenge  executed  on  an  offending  lover 
than  it  is  sure  to  be  repented;  and  all 
the  anger  which  before  raged  against  the 
beloved  object,  returns  with  double  fury 
on  the  head  of  his  assassin.  .  .  . 

It  is  usual  for  people  who  have  rashly 
or  inadvertently  made  any  animate  or 
inanimate  thing  the  instrument  of  mischief 
to  hate  the  innocent  means  by  which  the 
mischief  was  effected  (for  this  is  a  subtle 
method  which  the  mind  invents  to  excuse 
ourselves,  the  last  objects  on  whom  we 
would  willingly  wreak  our  vengeance). 


Those  who  have  read  any  romance  or 
poetry,  ancient  or  modern,  must  have  been 
informed  that  love  hath  wings:  by  which 
they  are  not  to  understand,  as  some  young 
ladies  by  mistake  have  done,  that  a  lover 
can  fly;  the  writers,  by  this  ingenious 
allegory,  intending  to  insinuate  no  more 
than  that  lovers  do  not  march  like  horse- 
guards. 

[on  dividing  books  into  chapters] 

There  are  certain  mysteries  or  secrets  in 
all  trades,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 

170 


from  that  of  prime-ministering  to  this  of 
authoring,  which  are  seldom  discovered 
unless  to  members  of  the  same  calling. 
Among  those  used  by  us  gentlemen  of  the 
latter  occupation,  I  take  this  of  dividing 
our  works  into  books  and  chapters  to  be 
none  of  the  least  considerable.  Now,  for 
want  of  being  truly  acquainted  with  this 
secret,  common  readers  imagine,  that  by 
this  art  of  dividing  we  mean  only  to  swell 
our  works  to  a  much  larger  bulk  than  they 
would  otherwise  be  extended  to.  These  sev- 
eral places  therefore  in  our  paper,  which 
are  filled  with  our  books  and  chapters,  are 
understood  as  so  much  buckram,  stays, 
and  stay-tape  in  a  taylor's  bill,  serving 
only  to  make  up  the  sum  total,  commonly 
found  at  the  bottom  of  our  first  page  and 
of  his  last. 

But  in  reality  the  case  is  otherwise, 
and  in  this  as  well  as  all  other  instances 
we  consult  the  advantage  of  our  reader, 
not  our  own;  and  indeed,  many  notable 
uses  arise  to  him  from  this  method;  for, 
first,  those  little  spaces  between  our  chap- 
ters may  be  looked  upon  as  an  inn  or 
resting-place  where  he  may  stop  and  take 
a   glass   or   any    other   refreshment    as    it 

171 


pleases  him.  Nay,  our  fine  readers  will, 
perhaps,  be  scarce  able  to  travel  farther 
than  through  one  of  them  in  a  day.  As 
to  those  vacant  pages  which  are  placed 
between  our  books,  they  are  to  be  regarded 
as  those  stages  where  in  long  journies 
the  traveller  stays  some  time  to  repose 
himself,  and  consider  of  what  he  hath 
seen  in  the  parts  he  hath  already  passed 
through;  a  consideration  which  I  take 
the  liberty  to  recommend  a  little  to  the 
reader;  for,  however  swift  his  capacity 
may  be,  I  would  not  advise  him  to  travel 
through  these  pages  too  fast;  for  if  he 
doth,  he  may  probably  miss  the  seeing 
some  curious  productions  of  nature,  which 
will  be  observed  by  the  slower  and  more 
accurate  reader.  A  volume  without  any 
such  places  of  rest  resembles  the  opening 
of  wilds  or  seas,  which  tires  the  eye  and 
fatigues  the  spirit  when  entered  upon. 

Secondly,  what  are  the  contents  pre- 
fixed to  every  chapter  but  so  many  inscrip- 
tions over  the  gates  of  inns  (to  continue 
the  same  metaphor),  informing  the  reader 
what  entertainment  he  is  to  expect,  which 
if  he  likes  not,  he  may  travel  on  to  the 
next;  for,  in  biography,  as  we  are  not  tied 

172 


down  to  an  exact  concatenation  equally 
with  other  historians,  so  a  chapter  or  two 
(for  instance,  this  I  am  now  writing)  may 
be  often  passed  over  without  any  injury 
to  the  whole.  And  in  these  inscriptions 
I  have  been  as  faithful  as  possible,  not 
imitating  the  celebrated  Montaigne,  who 
promises  you  one  thing  and  gives  you 
another;  nor  some  title-page  authors,  who 
promise  a  great  deal  and  produce  nothing 
at  all. 

There  are,  besides  these  more  obvious 
benefits,  several  others  which  our  readers 
enjoy  from  this  art  of  dividing;  though 
perhaps  most  of  them  too  mysterious  to 
be  presently  understood  by  any  who  are 
not  initiated  into  the  science  of  authoring. 
To  mention  therefore,  but  one  which  is 
most  obvious,  it  prevents  spoiling  the 
beauty  of  a  book  by  turning  down  its 
leaves,  a  method  otherwise  necessary  to 
those  readers  who  (though  they  read  with 
great  improvement  and  advantage)  are  apt, 
when  they  return  to  their  study  after  half- 
an-hour's  absence,  to  forget  where  they  left 

off. 

These  divisions  have  the  sanction  of 
great  antiquity.     Homer  not  only  divided 

173 


his  great  work  into  twenty-four  books 
(in  compliment  perhaps  to  the  twenty- 
four  letters  to  which  he  had  very  particular 
obligations),  but,  according  to  the  opinion 
of  some  very  sagacious  criticks,  hawked 
them  all  separately,  delivering  onlj  one 
book  at  a  time  (probably  by  subscription). 
He  was  the  first  inventor  of  the  art  which 
hath  so  long  lain  dormant,  of  publishing 
by  numbers;  an  art  now  brought  to  such 
perfection,  that  even  dictionaries  are  di- 
vided and  exhibited  piecemeal  to  the  pub- 
lic; nay,  one  bookseller  hath  (to  encourage 
learning  and  ease  the  public)  contrived 
to  give  them  a  dictionary  in  this  divided 
manner  for  only  fifteen  shillings  more  than 
it  would  have  cost  entire. 

Virgil  hath  given  us  his  poem  in  twelve 
books,  an  argument  of  his  modesty;  for 
by  that,  doubtless,  he  would  insinuate  that 
he  pretends  to  no  more  than  half  the  merit 
of  the  Greek;  for  the  same  reason,  our 
Milton  went  originally  no  farther  than  ten; 
till,  being  puffed  up  by  the  praise  of  his 
friends,  he  put  himself  on  the  same  foot- 
ing with  the  Roman  poet. 

I  shall  not,  however,  enter  so  deep  into 
this  matter  as  some  very  learned  criticks 

174 


have  done;  who  have  with  infinite  labour 
and  acute  discernment  discovered  what 
books  are  proper  for  embeUishment,  and 
what  require  simplicity  only,  particularly 
with  regard  to  similes,  which  I  think  are 
now  generally  agreed  to  become  any  book 
but  the  first. 

I  will  dismiss  this  subject  with  the  fol- 
lowing observation:  that  it  becomes  an  au- 
thor generally  to  divide  a  book,  as  it  does  a 
butcher  to  joint  his  meat,  for  such  assist- 
ance is  of  great  help  to  both  the  reader  and 
the  carver. 

[an  explanation  of  the  term, 

'*TO    RIDE    AND    TIE"] 

Mr.  Adams  discharged  the  bill,  and  they 
were  both  setting  out,  having  agreed  to 
ride  and  tie;  a  method  of  travcHing  much 
used  by  persons  who  have  but  one  horse 
between  them,  and  is  thus  performed.  The 
two  travellers  set  out  together,  one  on 
horseback,  the  other  on  foot:  now,  as  it 
generally  happens  that  he  on  horseback 
outgoes  him  on  foot,  the  custom  is,  that, 
when  he  arrives  at  the  distance  agreed  on, 
he  is  to  dismount,  tie  the  horse  to  some 
gate,  tree,  post,  or  other  thing,  and  then 

175 


proceed  on  foot;  when  the  other  comes  up 
to  the  horse  he  unties  him,  mounts,  and 
gallops  on,  till,  having  passed  by  his  fel- 
low-traveller, he  likewise  arrives  at  the 
place  of  tying. 

It  hath  been  observed,  by  wise  men  or 
women,  I  forget  which,  that  all  persons 
are  doomed  to  be  in  love  once  in  their 
lives.  No  particular  season  is,  as  I  re- 
member, assigned  for  this;  but  the  age 
at  which  Miss  Bridget  was  arrived  [above 
thirty],  seertis  to  me  as  proper  a  period  as 
any  to  be  fixed  on  for  this  purpose:  it 
often,  indeed,  happens  much  earlier;  but 
when  it  doth  not,  I  have  observed  it  sel- 
dom or  never  fails  about  this  time.  More- 
over, we  may  remark  that  at  this  season 
love  is  of  a  more  serious  and  steady  nature 
than  what  sometimes  shows  itself  in  the 
younger  parts  of  life.  The  love  of  girls 
is  uncertain,  capricious,  and  so  foohsh  that 
we  cannot  always  discover  what  the  young 
lady  would  be  at;  nay,  it  may  almost 
be  doubted  whether  she  always  knows  this 
herself. 

Now  we  are  never  at  a  loss  to  discern 
this  in  women  about  forty;    for  as  such 

176 


grave,  serious,  and  experienced  ladies  well 
know  their  own  meaning,  so  it  is  always 
very  easy  for  a  man  of  the  least  sagacity  to 
discover  it  with  the  utmost  certainty.  .  .  . 
And  to  say  the  truth,  there  is,  in  all 
points,  great  difference  between  the  reason- 
able passion  which  women  at  this  age 
conceive  towards  men,  and  the  idle  and 
childish  liking  of  a  girl  to  a  boy,  which  is 
often  fixed  on  the  outside  only,  and  on 
things  of  little  value  and  no  duration;  as 
on  cherry-cheeks,  small,  lily-white  hands, 
sloe-black  eyes,  flowing  locks,  downy  chins, 
dapper  shapes;  nay,  sometimes  on  charms 
more  worthless  than  these,  and  less  the 
party's  own;  such  are  the  outward  orna- 
ments of  the  person,  for  which  men  are 
beholden  to  the  taylor,  the  laceman,  the 
periwig-maker,  the  hatter,  and  the  mil- 
liner, and  not  to  nature.  Such  a  passion 
girls  may  well  be  ashamed,  as  they  gener- 
ally are,  to  own  either  to  themselves  or 
others. 

Nothing  can  be  more  reasonable,  than 
that  slaves  and  flatterers  should  exact  the 
same  taxes  on  all  below  them,  which  they 
themselves  pay  to  all  above  them. 

177 


Be  it  known  then,  that  the  human 
species  are  divided  into  two  sorts  of  people, 
to-wit,  high  people  and  low  people.  As 
by  high  people  I  would  not  be  understood 
to  mean  persons  literally  born  higher  in 
their  dimensions  than  the  rest  of  the 
species,  nor  metaphorically  those  of  exalted 
characters  or  abilities;  so  by  low  people 
I  cannot  be  construed  to  intend  the  reverse. 
High  people  signify  no  other  than  people 
of  fashion,  and  low  people  those  of  no 
fashion.  Now,  this  word  fashion  hath  by 
long  use  lost  its  original  meaning,  from 
which  at  present  it  gives  us  a  very  different 
idea;  for  I  am  deceived  if  by  persons  of 
fashion  we  do  not  generally  include  a 
conception  of  birth  and  accomplishments 
superior  to  the  herd  of  mankind;  whereas, 
in  reality,  nothing  more  was  originally 
meant  by  a  person  of  fashion  than  a  per- 
son who  drest  himself  in  the  fashion  of 
the  times;  and  the  word  really  and  truly 
signifies  no  more  at  this  day.  Now,  the 
world  being  thus  divided  into  people  of 
fashion  and  people  of  no  fashion,  a  fierce 
contention  arose  between  them;  nor  would 
those  of  one  party,  to  avoid  suspicion, 
be   seen   publickly   to   speak   to   those   of 

178 


the  other,  though  they  often  held  a  very 
good  correspondence  in  private.  In  this 
contention  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  party 
succeeded;  for,  whilst  the  people  of  fashion 
seized  several  places  to  their  own  use, 
such  as  courts,  assemblies,  operas,  balls, 
&c.,  the  people  of  no  fashion,  besides 
one  royal  place,  called  his  Majesty's  Bear- 
garden, have  been  in  constant  possession 
of  all  hops,  fairs,  revels,  &c.  Two  places 
have  been  agreed  to  be  divided  between 
them,  namely,  the  church  and  the  play- 
house, where  they  segregate  themselves 
from  each  other  in  a  remarkable  manner; 
for,  as  the  people  of  fashion  exalt  them- 
selves at  church  over  the  heads  of  the 
people  of  no  fashion,  so  in  the  playhouse 
they  abase  themselves  in  the  same  degree 
under  their  feet.  This  distinction  I  have 
never  met  wdth  any  one  able  to  account  for: 
it  is  sufficient  that,  so  far  from  looking 
on  each  other  as  brethren  in  the  Christian 
language,  they  seem  scarce  to  regard  each 
other  as  of  the  same  species.  .  .  . 

And  with  regard  to  time,  it  may  not  be 
unpleasant  to  survey  the  picture  of  de- 
pendence like  a  kind  of  ladder;  as,  for 
instance;    early  in  the  morning  arises  the 

179 


postillion,  or  some  other  boy,  which  great 
famiHes,  no  more  than  great  ships,  are 
without,  and  falls  to  brushing  the  clothes 
and  cleaning  the  shoes  of  John  the  foot- 
man; who,  being  drest  himself,  then  applies 
his  hands  to  the  same  labours  for  Mr. 
Secondhand,  the  squire's  gentleman;  the 
gentleman  in  the  like  manner,  a  little 
later  in  the  day,  attends  the  squire;  and 
the  squire  is  no  sooner  equipped  than  he 
attends  the  levee  of  my  lord;  which  is 
no  sooner  over  than  my  lord  himself  is 
seen  at  the  levee  of  the  favourite,  who, 
after  the  hour  of  homage  is  at  an  end, 
appears  himself  to  pay  homage  to  the 
levee  of  his  sovereign.  Nor  is  there,  per- 
haps, in  this  whole  ladder  of  dependence, 
any  one  step  at  a  greater  distance  from  the 
other  than  the  first  from  the  second;  so 
that  to  a  philosopher  the  question  might 
only  seem,  whether  you  would  chuse  to 
be  a  great  man  at  six  in  the  morning, 
or  at  two  in  the  afternoon.  And  yet  there 
are  scarce  two  of  these  who  do  not  think 
the  least  familiarity  with  the  persons  below 
them  a  condescension,  and,  if  they  were 
to  go  one  step  farther,  a  degradation. 


1 80 


In  all  bargains,  whether  to  fight  or  to 
marry,  or  concerning  any  other  such  busi- 
ness, httle  previous  ceremony  is  required 
to  bring  the  matter  to  an  issue  when  both 
parties  are  really  in  earnest. 


Though  envy  is  at  best  a  very  malig- 
nant passion,  yet  is  its  bitterness  greatly 
heightened  by  mixing  with  contempt 
towards  the  same  object;  and  very  much 
afraid  I  am,  that  whenever  an  obligation 
is  joined  to  these  two,  indignation  and 
not  gratitude  will  be  the  product  of  all 
three.  

It  is  with  jealousy  as  with  the  gout: 
when  such  distempers  are  in  the  blood, 
there  is  never  any  security  against  their 
breaking  out;  and  that  very  often  on  the 
slightest  occasions,  and  when  least  sus- 
pected.   


There  is  no  conduct  less  politic,  than 
to  enter  into  any  confederacy  with  your 
friend's  servants  against  their  master:  for 
by  these  means  you  afterwards  become  the 
slave  of  these  very  servants;  by  whom  you 
are  constantly  liable  to  be  betrayed. 

i8i 


The  most  formal  appearance  of  virtue, 
when  it  is  only  an  appearance,  may, 
perhaps,  in  very  abstracted  considerations, 
seem  to  be  rather  less  commendable  than 
virtue  itself  without  this  formality;  but 
it  will,  however,  be  always  more  com- 
mended; and  this,  I  believe,  will  be  granted 
by  all,  that  it  is  necessary,  unless  in  some 
very  particular  cases,  for  every  woman 
to  support  either  the  one  or  the  other. 


Virgil,  I  think,  tells  us,  that  when  the 
mob  are  assembled  in  a  riotous  and  tu- 
multuous manner,  and  all  sorts  of  missile 
weapons  fly  about,  if  a  man  of  gravity 
and  authority  appears  amongst  them,  the 
tumult  is  presently  appeased,  and  the  mob, 
which  when  collected  into  one  body,  may 
be  well  compared  to  an  ass,  erect  their 
long  ears  at  the  grave  man's  discourse. 

On  the  contrary,  when  a  set  of  grave 
men  and  philosophers  are  disputing;  when 
wisdom  herself  may  in  a  manner  be  con- 
sidered as  present,  and  administering  argu- 
ments to  the  disputants;  should  a  tumult 
arise  among  the  mob,  or  should  one  scold, 
who  is  herself  equal  in  noise  to  a  mighty 
mob,  appear  among  the  said  philosophers; 

182 


their  disputes  cease  in  a  moment,  wisdom 
no  longer  performs  her  ministerial  office, 
and  the  attention  of  every  one  is  imme- 
diately attracted  by  the  scold  alone. 


The  ancients  may  be  considered  as  a 
rich  common,  where  every  person  who  hath 
even  the  smallest  tenement  in  Parnassus 
hath  a  free  right  to  fatten  his  muse.  Or, 
to  place  it  in  a  clearer  light,  we  moderns 
are  to  the  ancients  what  the  poor  are  to 
the  rich.  By  the  poor  here  I  mean  that 
large  and  venerable  body  which,  in  English, 
we  call  the  mob.  Now,  whoever  hath  had 
the  honour  to  be  admitted  to  any  degree 
of  intimacy  with  this  mob,  must  well 
know  that  it  is  one  of  their  established 
maxims  to  plunder  and  pillage  their  rich 
neighbours  without  any  reluctance;  and 
that  this  is  held  to  be  neither  sin  nor 
shame  among  them.  And  so  constantly 
do  they  abide  and  act  by  this  maxim, 
that,  in  every  parish  almost  in  the  kingdom, 
there  is  a  kind  of  confederacy  ever  carry- 
ing on  against  a  certain  person  of  opulence 
called  the  squire,  whose  property  is  con- 
sidered as  free-booty  by  all  his  poor  neigh- 
bours;   who,   as  they  conclude  that  there 

183 


is  no  manner  of  guilt  in  such  depredations, 
look  upon  it  as  a  point  of  honour  and 
moral  obligation  to  conceal,  and  to  preserve 
each  other  from  punishment  on  all  such 
occasions. 

In  like  manner  are  the  ancients,  such  as 
Homer,  Virgil,  Horace,  Cicero,  and  the 
rest,  to  be  esteemed  among  us  writers,  as 
so  many  wealthy  squires,  from  whom  we, 
the  poor  of  Parnassus,  claim  an  immemo- 
rial custom  of  taking  whatever  we  can 
come  at. 

A  man  is  capable  of  doing  what  he  hath 
done  already,  and  it  is  possible  for  one  who 
hath  been  a  villain  once,  to  act  the  same 
part  again. 

Women,  to  their  glory  be  it  spoken,  are 
more  generally  capable  of  that  violent  and 
apparently  disinterested  passion  of  love, 
which  seeks  only  the  good  of  its  object, 
than  men. 

Though  there  are  many  gentlemen  who 
very  well  reconcile  it  to  their  consciences 
to  possess  themselves  of  the  whole  fortune 
of  a  woman,  without  making  her  any  kind 

184 


of  return;  yet  to  a  mind,  the  proprietor  of 
which  doth  not  deserve  to  be  hanged, 
nothing  is,  I  believe,  more  irksome  than  to 
support  love  with  gratitude  only;  especially 
where  inclination  pulls  the  heart  a  contrary 
way. 

The  elegant  Lord  Shaftesbury  somewhere 
objects  to  telling  too  much  truth:  by  which 
it  may  be  fairly  inferred,  that,  in  some 
cases,  to  lie  is  not  only  excusable  but 
commendable. 

And  surely  there  are  no  persons  who  may 
so  properly  challenge  a  right  to  this  com- 
mendable deviation  from  truth,  as  young 
women  in  the  affair  of  love;  for  which  they 
may  plead  precept,  education,  and  above 
all,  the  sanction,  nay,  I  may  say  the  neces- 
sity of  custom,  by  which  they  are  restrained, 
not  from  submitting  to  the  honest  impulses 
of  nature  (for  that  would  be  a  foolish  pro- 
hibition), but  from  ow^ning  them. 


Though  Nature  hath  by  no  means  mixed 
up  an  equal  share  either  of  curiosity  or 
vanity  in  every  human  composition,  there 
is  perhaps  no  individual  to  whom  she  hath 
not  allotted  such  a  proportion  of  both  as 

185 


requires  much  arts,  and  pains  too,  to  sub- 
due and  keep  under;  —  a  conquest,  how- 
ever, absolutely  necessary  to  every  one  who 
would  in  any  degree  deserve  the  characters 
of  wisdom  or  good  breeding. 

Heroes,  notwithstanding  the  high  ideas 
which,  by  the  means  of  flatterers,  they  may 
entertain  of  themselves,  or  the  world  may 
conceive  of  them,  have  certainly  more  of 
mortal  than  divine  about  them.  However 
elevated  their  minds  may  be,  their  bodies 
at  least  (which  is  much  the  major  part 
of  most)  are  liable  to  the  worst  infirm- 
ities, and  subject  to  the  vilest  offices  of 
human  nature.  Among  these  latter,  the  act 
of  eating,  which  hath  by  several  wise  men 
been  considered  as  extremely  mean  and 
derogatory  from  the  philosophic  dignity, 
must  be  in  some  measure  performed  by  the 
greatest  prince,  heroe,  or  philosopher  upon 
earth;  nay,  sometimes  Nature  hath  been 
so  frolicsome  as  to  exact  of  these  dignified 
characters  a  much  more  exorbitant  share 
of  this  office  than  she  hath  obliged  those 
of  the  lowest  order  to  perform. 

To  say  the  truth,  as  no  known  inhabitant 
of  this  globe  is  really  more  than  man,  so 

1 86 


none  need  be  ashamed  of  submitting  to 
what  the  necessities  of  man  demand;  but 
when  those  great  personages  I  have  just 
mentioned  condescend  to  aim  at  confining 
such  low  offices  to  themselves  —  as  when, 
by  hoarding  or  destroying,  they  seem 
desirous  to  prevent  any  others  from  eating 
—  then  they  surely  become  very  low  and 
despicable. 

[a  short  invocation  to  fame,  etc.] 

Comfort  me  by  a  solemn  assurance, 
that  when  the  little  parlour  in  which  I  sit 
at  this  instant  shall  be  reduced  to  a  worse 
furnished  box,  I  shall  be  read  with  honour 
by  those  who  never  knew  nor  saw  me,  and 
whom  I  shall  neither  know  nor  see.  .  .  . 

And  now  .  .  .  whose  assistance  shall  I 
invoke  to  direct  my  pen? 

First,  Genius;  thou  gift  of  Heaven;  with- 
out whose  aid  in  vain  we  struggle  against 
the  stream  of  nature.  Thou  who  dost  sow 
the  generous  seeds  which  art  nourishes, 
and  brings  to  perfection.  Do  thou  kindly 
take  me  by  the  hand,  and  lead  me  through 
all  the  mazes,  the  winding  labyrinths  of 
nature.  Initiate  me  into  all  those  mysteries 
which  profane  eyes   never  beheld.     Teach 

187 


me,  which  to  thee  is  no  difFicuIt  task, 
to  know  mankind  better  than  they  know 
themselves.  Remove  that  mist  which  dims 
the  intellects  of  mortals,  and  causes  them  to 
adore  men  for  their  art,  or  to  detest  them 
for  their  cunning,  in  deceiving  others,  when 
they  are,  in  reality,  the  objects  only  of 
ridicule,  for  deceiving  themselves.  Strip 
off  the  thin  disguise  of  wisdom  from  self- 
conceit,  of  plenty  from  avarice,  and  of  glory 
from  ambition.  Come,  thou  that  hast  in- 
spired thy  Aristophanes,  thy  Lucian,  thy 
Cervantes,  thy  Rabelais,  thy  Moliere,  thy 
Shakespear,  thy  Swift,  thy  Marivaux,  fill 
my  pages  with  humour;  till  mankind  learn 
the  good-nature  to  laugh  only  at  the  fol- 
lies of  others,  and  the  humility  to  grieve  at 
their  own. 

And  thou,  almost  the  constant  attendant 
on  true  genius.  Humanity,  bring  all  thy 
tender  sensations.  If  thou  hast  already  dis- 
posed of  them  all  between  thy  Allen  and 
thy  Lyttleton,  steal  them  a  little  while 
from  their  bosoms.  Not  without  these  the 
tender  scene  is  painted.  From  these  alone 
proceed  the  noble,  disinterested  friendship, 
the  melting  love,  the  generous  sentiment, 
the  ardent  gratitude,  the  soft  compassion, 

i88 


the  candid  opinion;  and  all  those  strong 
energies  of  a  good  mind,  which  fill  the 
moistened  eyes  with  tears,  the  glowing 
cheeks  with  blood,  and  swell  the  heart  with 
tides  of  grief,  joy,  and  benevolence. 

And  thou,  O  Learning!  (for  without  thy 
assistance  nothing  pure,  nothing  correct, 
can  genius  produce)  do  thou  guide  my  pen. 
Thee  in  thy  favorite  fields,  where  the 
limpid,  gently-rolling  Thames  washes  thy 
Etonian  banks,  in  early  youth  I  have 
worshipped.  To  thee,  at  thy  birchen  altar, 
with  true  Spartan  devotion,  I  have  sacri- 
ficed my  blood.  Come  then,  and  from  thy 
vast  and  luxuriant  stores,  in  long  antiquity 
piled  up,  pour  forth  the  rich  profusion. 
Open  thy  Mseonian  and  thy  Mantuan 
coffers,  with  whatever  else  includes  thy 
philosophic,  thy  poetic,  and  thy  historical 
treasures,  whether  with  Greek  or  Roman 
characters  thou  hast  chosen  to  inscribe 
the  ponderous  chests:  give  me  a  while 
that  key  to  all  thy  treasures,  which  to  thy 
Warburton  thou  hast  entrusted. 

Lastly,  come  Experience,  long  conversant 
with  the  wise,  the  good,  the  learned,  and 
the  polite.  Nor  with  them  only,  but  with 
every  kind  of  character,  from  the  minister 

189 


at  his  levee,  to  the  bailiff  in  his  spunging- 
house;  from  the  dutchess  at  her  drum, 
to  the  landlady  behind  her  bar.  From 
thee  only  can  the  manners  of  mankind 
be  known;  to  which  the  recluse  pedant, 
however  great  his  parts  or  extensive  his 
learning  may  be,  hath  ever  been  a  stranger. 

Come  all  these,  and  more,  if  possible; 
for  arduous  is  the  task  I  have  undertaken; 
and  without  all  your  assistance,  will,  I 
find,  be  too  heavy  for  me  to  support. 
But  if  you  all  smile  on  my  labours  I  hope 
still  to  bring  them  to  a  happy  con- 
clusion. .  .  . 

The  great  happiness  of  being  known  to 
posterity,  with  the  hopes  of  which  we  so 
dehghted  ourselves  in  the  foregoing,  is 
the  portion  of  few.  To  have  the  several 
elements  which  compose  our  names,  as 
Sydenham  expresses  it,  repeated  a  thousand 
years  hence,  is  a  gift  beyond  the  power 
of  title  and  wealth;  and  is  scarce  to  be 
purchased,  unless  by  the  sword  and  the 
pen. 


190 


[a    short   dissertation   on   nature,    in 

HER      attitude      TOWARDS      INDIVIDUALS^ 

Be  it  known  that  the  great  Alma  Mater, 
Nature,  is  of  all  other  females  the  most 
obstinate,  and  tenacious  of  her  purpose. 
So  true  is  that  observation, 

Naturam  expellas  Jurca  licet,  usque  recurret. 

Which  I  need  not  render  in  English,  it 
being  to  be  found  in  a  book  which  most 
fine  gentlemen  are  forced  to  read.  What- 
ever Nature,  therefore,  purposes  to  herself, 
she  never  suffers  any  reason,  design,  or 
accident  to  frustrate.  Now,  though  it 
may  seem  to  a  shallow  observer  that 
some  persons  were  designed  by  Nature 
for  no  use  or  purpose  whatever,  yet  certain 
it  is  that  no  man  is  born  into  the  world 
without  his  particular  allotment;  viz.,  some 
to  be  kings,  some  statesmen,  some  embas- 
sadors, some  bishops,  some  generals,  and 
so  on.  Of  these  there  be  two  kinds; 
those  to  whom  Nature  is  so  generous  to 
give  some  endowment  qualifying  them  for 
the  parts  she  intends  them  afterwards 
to  act  on  this  stage,  and  those  whom  she 
uses  as  instances  of  her  unlimited  power, 

191 


and  for  whose  preferment  to  such  and 
such  stations  Solomon  himself  could  have 
invented  no  other  reason  that  than  Nature 
designed  them  so.  These  latter  some  great 
philosophers  have,  to  shew  them  to  be  the 
favourites  of  Nature,  distinguished  by  the 
honourable  appellation  of  naturals.  In- 
deed, the  true  reason  of  the  general  igno- 
rance of  mankind  on  this  head  seems  to 
be  this;  that,  as  Nature  chuses  to  execute 
these  her  purposes  by  certain  second  causes, 
and  as  many  of  these  second  causes  seem 
so  totally  foreign  to  her  design,  the  wit  of 
man,  which,  like  his  eye,  sees  best  directly 
forward,  and  very  little  and  imperfectly 
what  is  oblique,  is  not  able  to  discern  the 
end  by  the  means.  Thus,  how  a  handsome 
wife  or  daughter  should  contribute  to  exe- 
cute her  original  designation  of  a  general, 
or  how  flattery  or  half  a  dozen  houses  in 
a  borough-town  should  denote  a  judge,  or 
a  bishop,  he  is  not  capable  of  comprehend- 
ing. And,  indeed,  we  ourselves,  wise  as  we 
are,  are  forced  to  reason  ab  effectu;  and  if 
we  had  been  asked  what  Nature  had  in- 
tended such  men  for,  before  she  herself  had 
by  the  event  demonstrated  her  purpose,  it 
is  possible  we  might  sometimes  have  been 

192 


puzzled  to  declare;  for  It  must  be  confessed 
that  at  first  sight,  and  to  a  mind  uninspired, 
a  man  of  vast  natural  capacity  and  much 
acquired  knowledge  may  seem  by  Nature 
designed  for  power  and  honour,  rather 
than  one  remarkable  only  for  the  want  of 
these,  and  indeed  all  other  qualifications; 
whereas  daily  experience  convinces  us  of 
the  contrary,  and  drives  us  as  it  were  into 
the  opinion  I  have  here  disclosed. 


[In  Fielding's  narrative  of  his  journey 
to  the  next  world  he  relates  how  he, 
in  company  with  a  number  of  other  spirits, 
arrived  at  the  Gate,  where  they  all  stood 
outside  listening  to  Judge  Minos  arguing 
with  the  various  applicants  for  admission. 
He  says :  —  ] 

THE  PROCEEDINGS  OF  JUDGE  MINOS 
AT  THE  GATE  OF  ELYSIUM 

I  now  got  near  enough  to  the  gate  to 
hear  the  several  claims  of  those  w^ho 
endeavoured  to  pass.  The  first,  among 
other  pretensions,  set  forth  that  he  had 
been  very  liberal  to  an  hospital;  but 
Minos   answered,    ''Ostentation!"    and   re- 

193 


pulsed  him.  The  second  exhibited  that  he 
had  constantly  frequented  his  church,  been 
a  rigid  observer  of  fast-days:  he  likewise 
represented  the  great  animosity  he  had 
shewn  to  vice  in  others,  which  never  es- 
caped his  severest  censure;  and  as  to  his 
own  behaviour,  he  had  never  been  once 
guilty  of  whoring,  drinking,  gluttony,  or 
any  other  excess.  He  said  he  had  dis- 
inherited his  son  for  getting  a  bastard. 
''Have  you  so?'*  said  Minos;  "then  pray 
return  into  the  other  world  and  beget 
another;  for  such  an  unnatural  rascal 
shall  never  pass  this  gate."  A  dozen 
others,  who  had  advanced  with  very  con- 
fident countenances,  seeing  him  rejected, 
turned  about  of  their  own  accord,  declar- 
ing, if  he  could  not  pass,  they  had  no 
expectation,  and  accordingly  they  followed 
him  back  to  earth;  w^hich  was  the  fate  of 
all  who  were  repulsed,  they  being  obliged 
to  take  a  further  purification,  unless  those 
who  were  guilty  of  some  very  heinous 
crimes,  who  were  hustled  in  at  a  little 
back  gate,  whence  they  tumbled  imme- 
diately into  the  bottomless  pit. 

The  next  spirit  that  came  up  declared 
he  had  done  neither  good  nor  evil  in  the 

194 


world;  for  that  since  his  arrival  at  man's 
estate  he  had  spent  his  whole  time  in 
search  of  curiosities;  and  particularly  in 
the  study  of  butterflies,  of  which  he  had 
collected  an  immense  number.  Minos  made 
him  no  answer,  but  with  great  scorn  he 
pushed  him  back. 

There  now  advanced  a  very  beautiful 
spirit  indeed.  She  began  to  ogle  Minos 
the  moment  she  saw  him.  She  said  she 
hoped  there  was  some  merit  in  refusing 
a  great  number  of  lovers,  and  dying  a 
maid,  though  she  had  had  the  choice  of  a 
hundred.  Minos  told  her  she  had  not 
refused  enow  yet,  and  turned  her  back. 

She  was  succeeded  by  a  spirit  who  told 
the  judge  he  believed  his  works  would 
speak  for  him.  "What  works?"  answered 
Minos.  ''My  dramatic  works,"  replied  the 
other,  "which  have  done  so  much  good 
in  recommending  virtue  and  punishing 
vice."  "Very  well,"  said  the  judge;  "if 
you  please  to  stand  by,  the  first  person 
who  passes  the  gate  by  your  means  shall 
carry  you  in  with  him;  but,  if  you  will 
take  my  advice,  I  think,  for  expedition 
sake,  you  had  better  return,  and  live 
another  life  upon  earth."    The  bard  grum- 

195 


bled  at  this,  and  replied  that,  besides 
his  poetical  works,  he  had  done  some 
other  good  things:  for  that  he  had  once 
lent  the  whole  profits  of  a  benefit-night 
to  a  friend,  and  by  that  means  had  saved 
him  and  his  family  from  destruction.  Upon 
this  the  gate  flew  open,  and  Minos  desired 
him  to  walk  in,  telling  him,  if  he  had 
mentioned  this  at  first,  he  might  have 
spared  the  remembrance  of  his  plays.  The 
poet  answered,  he  believed,  if  Minos  had 
read  his  works,  he  would  set  a  higher 
value  on  them.  He  was  then  beginning 
to  repeat,  but  Minos  pushed  him  forward, 
and,  turning  his  back  to  him,  applied 
himself  to  the  next  passenger,  a  very 
genteel  spirit,  who  made  a  very  low  bow 
to  Minos,  and  then  threw  himself  into  an 
erect  attitude,  and  imitated  the  motion 
of  taking  snufl"  with  his  right  hand.  Minos 
asked  him  what  he  had  to  say  for  himself. 
He  answered,  he  would  dance  a  minuet 
with  any  spirit  in  Elysium:  that  he  could 
likewise  perform  all  his  other  exercises 
very  well,  and  hoped  he  had  in  his  life 
deserved  the  character  of  a  perfect  fine 
gentleman.  Minos  replied  it  would  be 
great  pity  to  rob  the  world  of  so  fine  a 

196 


gentleman,  and  therefore  desired  him  to 
take  the  other  trip.  The  beau  bowed, 
thanked  the  judge,  and  said  he  desired  no 
better.  Several  spirits  expressed  much 
astonishment  at  this  his  satisfaction;  but 
we  were  afterwards  informed  he  had  not 
taken  the  emetic  above  mentioned. 

A  miserable  old  spirit  now  crawled  for- 
wards, whose  face  I  thought  I  had  formerly 
seen  near  Westminster  Abbey.  He  enter- 
tained Minos  with  a  long  harangue  of 
what  he  had  done  when  in  the  house; 
and  then  proceeded  to  inform  him  how 
much  he  was  worth,  without  attempting 
to  produce  a  single  instance  of  any  one 
good  action.  Minos  stopt  the  career  of  his 
discourse,    and    acquainted    him    he    must 

take  a  trip  back  again.     "What!  to  S 

house?"  said  the  spirit  in  an  ecstasy;  but 
the  judge,  without  making  him  any  answer 
turned  to  another,  who,  with  a  very  sol- 
emn air  and  great  dignity,  acquainted  him 
that  he  was  a  duke.  "To  the  right-about, 
Mr.  Duke,"  cried  Minos,  "you  are  in- 
finitely too  great  a  man  for  Elysium;'* 
and  then,  giving  him  a  kick  on  the  breech, 
he  addressed  himself  to  a  spirit  who,  with 
fear  and  trembling,  begged  he  might  not 

197 


go  to  the  bottomless  pit:  he  said  he  hoped 
Minos  would  consider  that,  though  he 
had  gone  astray,  he  had  suffered  for  it  — 
that  it  was  necessity  which  drove  him  to 
the  robbery  of  eighteenpence,  which  he 
had  committed,  and  for  which  he  was 
hanged  —  that  he  had  done  some  good 
actions  in  his  life  —  that  he  had  supported 
an  aged  parent  with  his  labour  —  that  he 
had  been  a  very  tender  husband  and  a 
kind  father  —  and  that  he  had  ruined 
himself  by  being  bail  for  his  friend.  At 
which  words  the  gate  opened,  and  Minos 
bid  him  enter,  giving  him  a  slap  on  the 
back  as  he  passed  by  him. 

A  great  number  of  spirits  now  came  for- 
wards, who  all  declared  they  had  the  same 
claim,  and  that  the  captain  should  speak 
for  them.  He  acquainted  the  judge  that 
they  had  been  all  slain  in  the  service  of 
their  country.  Minos  was  going  to  admit 
them,  but  had  the  curiosity  to  ask  who  had 
been  the  invader,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to 
prepare  the  back  gate  for  him.  The  cap- 
tain answered  they  had  been  the  invaders 
themselves  —  that  they  had  entered  the 
enemy's  country,  and  burnt  and  plundered 
several  cities.     "And    for    what    reason?'* 

198 


said  Minos.  "By  the  command  of  him 
who  paid  us,"  said  the  captain;  "that  is 
the  reason  of  a  soldier.  We  are  to  execute 
whatever  we  are  commanded,  or  we  should 
be  a  disgrace  to  the  army,  and  very  little 
deserve  our  pay."  "You  are  brave  fellows 
indeed,"  said  Minos;  "but  be  pleased  to 
face  about,  and  obey  my  command  for 
once,  in  returning  back  to  the  other  world: 
for  what  should  such  fellows  as  you  do 
where  there  are  no  cities  to  be  burnt, 
nor  people  to  be  destroyed?  But  let  me 
advise  you  to  have  a  stricter  regard  to 
truth  for  the  future,  and  not  call  the 
depopulating  other  countries  the  service 
of  your  own."  The  captain  answered, 
in  a  rage,  "D — n  me!  do  you  give  me  the 
lie?"  and  was  going  to  take  Minos  by  the 
nose,  had  not  his  guards  prevented  him, 
and  immediately  turned  him  and  all  his 
followers  back  the  same  road  they  came. 

Four  spirits  informed  the  judge  that  they 
had  been  starved  to  death  through  poverty 
—  being  the  father,  mother,  and  two  chil- 
dren; that  they  had  been  honest  and  as 
industrious  as  possible,  till  sickness  had 
prevented  the  man  from  labour.  "All  that 
is   very   true,"    cried   a   grave   spirit   who 

199 


stood  by.  "I  know  the  fact;  for  these  poor 
people  were  under  my  cure." 

**You  was,  I  suppose,  the  parson  of  the 
parish,'*  cries  Minos;  "I  hope  you  had  a 
good  living,  sir."  "That  was  but  a  small 
one,"  replied  the  spirit;  "but  I  had  another 
a  little  better."  —  "Very  well,"  said  Minos; 
"let  the  poor  people  pass."  At  which  the 
parson  was  stepping  forwards  with  a  stately 
gait  before  them;  but  Minos  caught  hold 
of  him  and  pulled  him  back,  saying,  "Not 
so  fast,  doctor  —  you  must  take  one  step 
more  into  the  other  world  first;  for  no  man 
enters  that  gate  without  charity." 

A  very  stately  figure  now  presented 
himself,  and,  informing  Minos  he  was  a 
patriot,  began  a  very  florid  harangue  on 
public  virtue  and  the  liberties  of  his  coun- 
try. Upon  which  Minos  shewed  him  the 
utmost  respect,  and  ordered  the  gate  to  be 
opened.  The  patriot  was  not  contented 
with  this  applause;  he  said  he  had  behaved 
as  well  in  place  as  he  had  done  in  the 
opposition;  and  that,  though  he  was  now 
obliged  to  embrace  the  court  measures, 
yet  he  had  behaved  very  honestly  to  his 
friends,  and  brought  as  many  in  as  was 
possible.     "Hold  a  moment,"  says  Minos: 

200 


"on  second  consideration,  Mr.  Patriot,  I 
think  a  man  of  your  great  virtue  and  abili- 
ties will  be  so  much  missed  by  your  coun- 
try, that,  if  I  might  advise  you,  you  should 
take  a  journey  back  again.  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  decline  it;  for  I  am  certain  that 
you  will,  with  great  readiness,  sacrifice  your 
own  happiness  to  the  public  good." 

The  patriot  smiled,  and  told  Minos  he 
believed  he  was  in  jest;  and  was  offering 
to  enter  the  gate,  but  the  judge  laid  fast 
hold  of  him  and  insisted  on  his  return, 
which  the  patriot  still  declining,  he  at 
last  ordered  his  guards  to  seize  him  and 
conduct  him  back. 

A  spirit  now  advanced,  and  the  gate  was 
immediately  thrown  open  to  him  before 
he  had  spoken  a  word.  I  heard  some  one 
whisper,  "That  is  our  last  lord  mayor!" 

It  now  came  to  our  company's  turn.  The 
fair  spirit  which  I  mentioned  with  so  much 
applause  in  the  beginning  of  my  journey 
passed  through  very  easily;  but  the  grave 
lady  was  rejected  on  her  first  appearance, 
Minos  declaring  that  there  was  not  a  single 
prude  in  Elysium. 

The  judge  then  addressed  himself  to 
me,  who  little  expected  to  pass  this  fiery 

201 


trial.  I  confessed  I  had  indulged  myself 
very  freely  with  wine  and  women  in  my 
youth,  but  had  never  done  an  injury  to 
any  man  living,  nor  avoided  an  opportunity 
of  doing  good;  that  I  pretended  to  very 
little  virtue  more  than  general  philanthropy 
and  private  friendship.  I  was  proceeding, 
when  Minos  bid  me  enter  the  gate,  and 
not  indulge  myself  with  trumpeting  forth 
my  virtues.  I  accordingly  passed  forward 
with  my  lovely  companion,  and,  embracing 
her  with  vast  eagerness,  but  spiritual  in- 
nocence, she  returned  my  embrace  in  the 
same  manner,  and  we  both  congratulated 
ourselves  on  our  arrival  in  this  happy 
region,  whose  beauty  no  painting  of  the 
imagination  can  describe. 


[While  Fielding  was  en  route  to  Lisbon 
the  sailing  vessel  was  becalmed  and  his 
party  betook  themselves  to  a  country  inn 
on  the  shore,  where  they  remained  for 
some  days,  waiting  for  a  favorable  wind. 
In  his  journal  there  appears  the  following 
account  of  the  landlord,  named  Francis,  and 
his  "amiable"  lady:  —  ] 

He  had  no  more  passion  than  an  Ichthuo- 
fagus  or  Ethiopian  fisher.     He  wished  not 

202 


for  anything,  thought  not  of  anything; 
indeed  he  scarce  did  anything  or  said 
anything.  Here  I  cannot  be  understood 
strictly;  for  then  I  must  describe  a  nonen- 
tity, whereas  I  would  rob  him  of  nothing 
but  that  free  agency  which  is  the  cause  of 
all  corruption  and  of  all  the  misery  of 
human  nature.  No  man,  indeed,  ever  did 
more  than  this  farmer,  for  he  was  an 
absolute  slave  to  labour  all  the  week; 
but  in  truth,  as  my  sagacious  reader  must 
have  at  first  apprehended,  when  I  said 
he  resigned  the  care  of  the  house  to  his 
wife,  I  meant  more  than  I  then  expressed, 
even  the  house  and  all  that  belonged  to  it; 
for  he  was  really  a  farmer  only  under  the 
direction  of  his  wife.  In  a  word,  so  com- 
posed, so  serene,  so  placid  a  countenance, 
I  never  saw;  and  he  satisfied  himself  by 
answering  to  every  question  he  was  asked, 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  sir; 
I  leaves  all  that  to  my  wife." 

Now,  as  a  couple  of  this  kind  would, 
like  two  vessels  of  oil,  have  made  no  com- 
position in  life,  and  for  want  of  all  savour 
must  have  palled  every  taste;  nature  or 
fortune,  or  both  of  them,  took  care  to 
provide  a  proper  quantity  of  acid  in  the 

203 


materials  that  formed  the  wife,  and  to 
render  her  a  perfect  helpmate  for  so  tran- 
quil a  husband.  She  abounded  in  what- 
soever he  was  defective;  that  is  to  say,  in 
almost  everything.  She  was  indeed  as  vin- 
egar to  oil,  or  a  brisk  wind  to  a  standing- 
pool,  and  preserved  all  from  stagnation  and 
corruption.  .  .  . 

A  tyrant,  a  trickster,  and  a  bully,  gener- 
ally wear  the  marks  of  their  several  dis- 
positions in  their  countenances;  so  do  the 
vixen,  the  shrew,  the  scold,  and  all  other 
females  of  the  like  kind.  But,  perhaps, 
nature  hath  never  afforded  a  stronger 
example  of  all  this  than  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Francis.  She  was  a  short,  squat  woman; 
her  head  was  closely  joined  to  her  shoulders, 
where  it  was  fixed  somewhat  awry;  every 
feature  of  her  countenance  was  sharp  and 
pointed;  her  face  was  furrowed  with  the 
small-pox;  and  her  complexion,  which 
seemed  to  be  able  to  turn  milk  to  curds, 
not  a  little  resembled  in  colour  such  milk 
as  had  already  undergone  that  operation. 
She  appeared,  indeed,  to  have  many  symp- 
toms of  a  deep  jaundice  in  her  look;  but  the 
strength  and  firmness  of  her  voice  over- 
balanced them  all;    the  tone  of  this  was 

204 


a  sharp  treble  at  a  distance,  for  I  seldom 
heard  it  on  the  same  floor,  but  was  usually- 
waked  with  it  in  the  morning,  and  enter- 
tained with  it  almost  continually  through 
the  whole  day. 

Though  vocal  be  usually  put  in  op- 
position to  instrumental  music,  I  ques- 
tion whether  this  might  not  be  thought 
to  partake  of  the  nature  of  both;  for 
she  played  on  two  instruments,  which  she 
seemed  to  keep  for  no  other  use  from 
morning  till  night;  these  were  two  maids, 
or  rather  scolding-stocks,  who,  I  suppose, 
by  some  means  or  other,  earned  their 
board,  and  she  gave  them  their  lodging 
gratis^  or  for  no  other  service  than  to  keep 
her  lungs  in  constant  exercise. 

She  differed,  as  I  have  said,  in  every 
particular  from  her  husband;  but  very 
remarkably  in  this,  that,  as  it  was  impos- 
sible to  displease  him,  so  it  was  as  impossible 
to  please  her;  and  as  no  art  could  remove 
a  smile  from  his  countenance,  so  could  no 
art  carry  it  into  hers.  If  her  bills  were 
remonstrated  against  she  was  offended  with 
the  tacit  censure  of  her  fair-dealing;  if 
they  were  not,  she  seemed  to  regard  it  as 
a  tacit  sarcasm  on  her  folly,  which  might 

205 


have  set  down  larger  prices  with  the  same 
success.  On  this  latter  hint  she  did  in- 
deed improve,  for  she  daily  raised  some  of 
her  articles.  A  pennyw^orth  of  fire  was 
to-day  rated  at  a  shilling,  to-morrow  at 
eighteen-pence;  and  if  she  dressed  us 
two  dishes  for  two  shillings  on  the  Saturday, 
we  paid  half-a-crown  for  the  cookery  of 
one  on  the  Sunday;  and,  whenever  she 
was  paid,  she  never  left  the  room  without 
lamenting  the  small  amount  of  her  bill, 
saying,  "she  knew  not  how  it  was  that 
others  got  their  money  by  gentlefolks, 
but  for  her  part  she  had  not  the  art  of 
it."  When  she  was  asked  why  she  com- 
plained, when  she  was  paid  all  she  de- 
manded, she  answered,  "she  could  not 
deny  that,  nor  did  she  know  that  she  had 
omitted  anything;  but  that  it  was  but 
a  poor  bill  for  gentlefolks  to  pay." 


[The  following  is  an  excerpt  from  Field- 
ing's Preface  to  his  "Voyage  to  Lisbon." 
These  lines  are  among  the  last  he  wrote :  — ] 

To  make  a  traveller  an  agreeable  com- 
panion to  a  man  of  sense,  it  is  necessary, 
not  only  that  he  should  have  seen  much, 

206 


but  that  he  should  have  overlooked  much 
of  what  he  hath  seen.  Nature  is  not,  any- 
more than  a  great  genius,  always  admirable 
in  her  productions,  and  therefore  the  trav- 
eller, who  may  be  called  her  commentator, 
should  not  expect  to  find  everywhere  sub- 
jects worthy  of  his  notice. 

As  there  are  few  things  which  a  traveller 
is  to  record,  there  are  fewer  on  which  he  is 
to  offer  his  observations:  this  is  the  office 
of  the  reader;  and  it  is  so  pleasant  a  one, 
that  he  seldom  chuses  to  have  it  taken  from 
him,  under  the  pretence  of  lending  him 
assistance.  Some  occasions,  indeed,  there 
are,  when  proper  observations  are  pertinent, 
and  others  when  they  are  necessary;  but 
good  sense  alone  must  point  them  out. 
I  shall  lay  down  only  one  general  rule; 
which  I  believe  to  be  of  universal  truth 
between  relator  and  hearer,  as  it  is  between 
author  and  reader;  this  is,  that  the  latter 
never  forgive  any  observation  of  the  for- 
mer which  doth  not  convey  some  knowl- 
edge that  they  are  sensible  they  could  not 
possibly  have  attained  of  themselves. 

But  all  his  pains  in  collecting  knowledge, 
all  his  judgment  in  selecting,  and  all  his 
art  in  communicating  it,  will  not  suffice, 

207  /' 


/ 


unless  he  can  make  himself,  in  some  degree, 
an  agreeable  as  well  as  an  instructive 
companion.  The  highest  instruction  we 
can  derive  from  the  tedious  tale  of  a  dull 
fellow  scarce  ever  pays  us  for  our  attention. 
There  is  nothing,  I  think,  half  so  valuable 
as  knowledge. 


208 


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